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SELECTIONS  FROM  THE 

» 

PROSE  TALES  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


lilacmtllan's  amertcan  anlr  ISngltsI}  Classics 

A  Series  of  English  Texts,  edited  for  use  in  Elementary  and  | 
Secondary  Schools,  with  Critical  Introductions,  Notes,  etc.  s 

i6mo  Cloth  25  cents  each 


Addison’s  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley. 
Andersen’s  Fairy  Tales. 

Arabian  Nights’  Entertainments. 

Arnold’s  Sohrab  and  Rustum. 

Bacon’s  Essays. 

Bible  (Memorable  Passages  from). 
Blackmore’s  Lorna  Doone. 

Browning's  Shorter  Poems. 

Browning,  Mrs.,  Poems  (Selected). 
Bryant’s  Thanatopsis,  etc. 

Bulwer’s  Last  Days  of  Pompeii. 

Bunyan’s  The  Pilgrim’s  Progress. 
Burke’s  Speech  on  Conciliation. 

Burns'  Poems  (Selections  from). 

Byron’s  Childe  Harold’s  Pilgrimage. 
Byron’s  Shorter  Poems. 

Carlyle’s  Essay  on  Burns. 

Carlyle’s  Heroes  and  Hero  Worship. 
Carroll’s  Alice’s  Adventures  in  Wonder¬ 
land  (Illustrated). 

Chaucer's  Prologue  and  Knight’s  Tale. 
Church's  The  Story  of  the  Iliad. 

Church’s  The  Story  of  the  Odyssey. 
Coleridge's  The  Ancient  Mariner. 
Cooper’s  The  Deerslayer. 

Cooper's  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans. 
Defoe’s  Robinson  Crusoe. 

De  Quincey’s  Confessions  of  an  English 
Opium-Eater. 

De  Quincey’s  Joan  of  Arc,  and  The  Eng¬ 
lish  Mail-Coach. 

Dickens’  A  Christmas  Carol,  and  The 
Cricket  on  the  Hearth. 


acnullau'0  ilmerican  anti  ISnrjUsl)  Classics^ 

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Iecondary  Schools,  with  Critical  Introductions,  Notes,  etc. 

i6mo  Cloth  25  cents  each 


gfsley’s  The  Heroes, 
lb’s  The  Essays  of  Elia, 
gfellow’s  Evangeline, 
gfellow's  Hiawatha, 
gfellow’s  Miles  Standish. 
gfellow’s  Tale^of  a  Wayside  Inn. 
'ell’s  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal. 
aulay’s  Essay  on  Addison, 
aulay’s  Essay  on  Hastings, 
aulay’s  Essay  on  Lord  Clive, 
aulay’s  Essay  on  Milton, 
aulay’s  Lays  of  Ancient  Ronne. 
aulay’s  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson, 
on’s  Comus  and  Other  Poems, 
on's  Paradise  Lost,  Books  I.  and  II. 
English  Ballads.  ' 
of  the  Northland, 
jrave's  Golden  Treasury, 
arch’s  Lives  (Caesar,  Brutus,  and 
dark  Antony), 

’s  Poems. 

’s  Prose  Tales  (Selections  from), 
e’s  Homer’s  Iliad, 
e’s  The  Rape  of  the  Lock, 
kin’s  Sesame  and  Lilies. 

;t’s  Ivanhoe. 

Ts  Kenilworth. 

It’s  Lady  of  the  Lake, 
it’s  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel, 
t’s  Marmion. 
tt’s  Quentin  Durward. 


Scott’s  The  Talisman. 

Shakespeare’s  As  You  Like  It. 
Shakespeare’s  Hamlet. 

Shakespeare’s  Henry  V. 

Shakespeare’s  Julius  Caesar. 
Shakespeare’s  King  Lear. 
Shakespeare’s  Macbeth. 

Shakespeare’s  Midsummer  hJight’s 
Dream. 

Shakespeare’s  Merchant  of  Venice. 
Shakespeare’s  Richard  II. 

Shakespeare’s  The  Tempest. 
Shakespeare’s  Twelfth  Night. 

Shelley  and  Keats :  Poems, 

Sheridan’s  The  Rivals  and  The  School 
for  Scandal. 

Southern  Poets :  Selections, 

Spenser’s  Faerie  Queene,  Book  1. 
Stevenson’s  The  Master  of  Ballantrae. 
Stevenson’s  Treasure  Island. 

Swift’s  Gulliver’s  Travels. 

Tennyson’s  Idylls  of  the  King. 
Tennyson’s  The  Princess. 

Tennyson’s  Shorter  Poems. 

Thackeray’s  Henry  Esmond. 
Washington’s  Farewell  Address,  and 
Webster’s  First  Bunker  Hill  Oration. 
Whittier’s  Snow-bound  and  Other  Early 
Poems. 

Woolman’s  Journal. 

Wordsworth’s  Shorter  Poems. 


•T 


s 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE 
PROSE  TALES  ' 

OP 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


WITH  NOTES  AND  INTRODUCTION 


.  Keto  gork 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 

1908 


All  rights  reserved 


r  i 


Copyright,  1901, 


By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  February,  1901,  Reprinted  July, 
1902;  April,  1903;  July,  1904  ;  February,  1905  ;  October,  1906; 
June,  1907  ;  May,  1908- 


1 


t\^ 

PI  5^ 


> 


KOTE 

The  text  used  in  the  following  selection  is  that  of 

f 

the  collected  works  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  edited  by 
Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  and  George  Edward  Wood- 
berry,  and  acknowledgments  are  here  made  for  the 
very  kind  permission  of  the  publishers,  H.  S.  Stone 
&  Co.,  to  use  the  text  of  this  the  most  authoritative 
■  edition  of  Poe’s  works. 


mr 


400200 


CONTENTS 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  .  .  . 

-  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Ushek 
Ligeia^^ — 

Silence  —  A  Fable  . 

5  The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death 
^The  Assignation 
The  Cask  of  Amontillado, 

O 

^/The  Pit  and  the  Pen^lum  .  ' 
"'^''iLLiAM  Wilson 
^  A  Descent  ii^to  the  Maelstrom 
^The  Gold-bug  .... 
^The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue 

"V 

/notes  .  . 

i  -"I 

/  ; 

'V'  '  <  *  -f  A 


L-'.C- 


71 


339 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


■•o 


Poe’s  character  is  the  most  complex  which  has  yet 
appeared  among  American  writers,  and  his  genius  is 
the  most  elusive  and  individual.  He  fills  a  very  con¬ 
siderable  place  in  our  literary  development,  and  yet,  in 
important  aspects  of  his  career,  he  seems  to  have  been 
entirely  detached  from  it.  His  genius  is  no  longer 
questioned,  nor  is  his  influence ;  and  yet  his  impress 
on  the  spiritual  life  of  the  country  is  hardly  perceptible. 
Concerning  no  other  American  man  of  Letters  has 
there  been  such  a  consensus  of  critical  opinion  abroad; 
concerning  no  other  native  poet,  save  Whitman,  have 
there  been  such  radical  differences  of  opinion  at  home. 
He  holds  a  secure  place  among  American  writers,  but 
he  is  in  no  sense  a  representative  writer :  his  character**^ 
and  career  were  deeply  affected  by  the  conditions  of  the 
time  in  which  he  lived ^^but  one  looks  in  vain  for  any 
vital  expression  of  the  life  of  his  time  in  his  prose  or 
vers^  In  his  criticism,  it  is  true,  there  is  the  reflec¬ 
tion  and  imprint  of  the  literary  conditions  amid  which 

ix 

H 


X 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


he  lived ;  but  his  criticism,  although  temporarily  sig'  I 
nificant  and  important,  was  the  product  of  his  analyti-  * 
cal  skill  and  insight,  not  of  his  genius.  He  is,  within  ] 
narrow  limits,  as  true  an  artist  as  Hawthorne,  and,  at  j 
times^-ihe  master  of  a  spell  which  Hawthorne  did  not  i 
command^  and  yet  he  has  left  a  larger  legacy  of  second-  j 
class  work  behind  him  than  any  other  American  writer  f 
.of  his  class.  ■ 

He  came  early  under  Southern  influence,  he  always  , 
regarded  himself  as  a  Southerner,  and  he  has  been  ” 
long  accepted  as  the  foremost  representative  of  the 
South  in  our  literature ;  but  it  would  not  be  easy  to 
discover  the  marks  of  the  Southern  spirit  or  the 
Southern  tradition  in  his  work.  His  temperament  had  ■ 
much  in  common,  it  is  true,  with  the  Southern  tempera-  I 
meni^it  no  man  was  more  free  from  that  intense  lo-  | 
calism  of  feeling  which  is  characteristic  of  the  Sout]^  ' 

As  a  critic  his  point  of  view  was  that  of  an  Ameri¬ 
can  slightly  in  advance  of  hisjbime :  as  a  creative  artist 
he  has  no  country.  A  singular  detachment  is  char¬ 
acteristic  of  his  work  at  the  very  time  when  great 
passions  were  steadily  rising  and  important  historical 
movements  taking  shape.  While  X/owell,  Emerson, 
and  Whittier,  were  profoundly  influenced  by  the  spir¬ 
itual  conditions  about  them,  Poe  took  his  solitary  way 
as  1  emote  from  the  inspiration  of  the  period  as  he  was 
from  its  disturbing  influence.  The  contradictions  in  his 


\ 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


XI 


character  and  life  were  even  more  radical  than  those  in 
his  genius  and  art;  and  neither  the  writer  nor  the  man 
is  comprehensible  without  careful,  open-minded,  and 
sympathetic  study  of  his  conditions  and  career. 

These  contradictions  began  with  his  birth ;  for 
although  he  was  to  be  the  most  widely  known  of 
Southern  writers,  he  was  born  in  Boston.  He  was 
always  a  man  of  solitary  temper;  he  never  struck 
roots  into  any  soil ;  and  it  seems  significant,  there¬ 
fore,  that  although  born  in  the  capital  city  of  New 
England,  neither  he  nor  his  parents  can  be  said  to  have 
lived  there. 

His  grandfather,  David  Poe,  a  man  of  Irish  blood, 
was  an  ardent  patriot  during  the  Revolutionary  period, 
and  left  a  reputation  in  Baltimore  as  a  vigorous  and 
resolute  person,  whose  will  commanded  his  tempera¬ 
ment.  Poe’s  father  began  as  a  student  of  law,  and 
ended  by  going  on  the  stage.  His  mother,  Elizabeth 
Arnold,  the  daughter  of  an  English  actress,  who  for¬ 
sook  the  region  of  Covent  Garden  for  the  precarious 
life  of  a  player  in  the  New  World,  was  a  woman 
of  delicate  figure,  the  possessor  of  a  sweet  voice 
of  small  range,  and  of  a  charm  of  manner  which  won 
friends  if  not  popular  success.  The  two  young  actors 
were  married  in  the  South,  appeared  in  Richmond, 
Philadelphia,  and  New  York,  and  reached  Boston  in 
the  fall  of  1806.  Here  they  spent  the  three  succeed- 


xii  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

ing  years,  and  here,  on  January  19,  1809,  the  second 
son  was  born  and  named  Edgar.  Two  years  later,  the 
family,  sharing  the  vicissitudes  of  players  of  mediocre 
talent  in  a  country  in  which  the  position  of  the  stage 
was  still  uncertain,  were  in  Richmond  in  extreme 
destitution.  The  pathetic  appeal,  published  in  a  local 
newspaper,  in  which  Mrs.  Poe,  lingering  on  the  bed 
of  disease  and  surrounded  by  her  children,  asks  your 
assistance,  and  asks  it  perhaps  for  the  last  time,’’  was 
not  made  in  vain ;  but  not  even  Southern  generosity 
could  prolong  the  life  of  a  fragile  and  overburdened 
woman,  and  Mrs.  Poe  died  a  few  days  later.  Of  Mr. 
Poe  nothing  is  known  subsequent  to  the  death  of  his 
wife.  The  three  children  were  scattered ;  Edgar  being 
fortunate  enough  to  awaken  the  interest  Of  Mrs.  John 
Allan,  the  young  wife  of  a  well-to-do  business  man  in 
Richmond. 

The  conditions  of  the  boy’s  life  were  changed  as  by 
magic ;  he  became  a  member  of  a  family  living  in  easy 
and  comfortable  ways,  he  was  tenderly  cared  for  and 
greatly  admired.  The  fascination  of  his  personality 
was  ^  already  making  itself  felt,  and  his  mobile  and  I 
sensitive  face,  his  luminous  eyes,  and  his  talent  for  j 
declamation  brought  a  foretaste  of  that  applause  of  I 
which  he  was  avid  by  nature.  Mr.  Allan  had  not  only  i 
the  Scotch  thrift,  but  the  Scotch  regard  for  education  ; 
and  the  child  of  his  adoption,  now  become  Edgar  i 


*  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  xiii 

Allan  Poe,  liad  the  best  opportunities  of  his  time. 
.He  went  to  school  in  Pichmond  for  several  years;  a 
fastidiously  dressed  child,  fond  of  his  pony  and  his 
'■dogs,  and  easily  attracting  the  attention  and  awaken¬ 
ing  the  interest  of  many  people  outside  his  own  home, 
in  which  he  had  all  the  honors  of  an  only  child.  In 
1815  Mr.  Allan  took  his  family  to  England,  and  Edgar 
entered  the  Manor  House  School,  on  the  outskirts  of 
London. 

In  this  secluded  English  village,  with  its  long,  shaded 
street,  the  boy  spent  five  of  the  most  impressionable 
years  of  his  life,  and  the  surroundings  and  experiences 

■  of  this  period  left  an  ineffaceable  impress  upon  his  im- 
I  agination.  The  school  was  lodged  in  an  old,  spacious, 

■  irregular  structure ;  the  schoolroom  was  low,  ceiled 
with  oak,  and  lighted  by  Gothic  windows ;  its  desks 
bore  the  marks  of  generations  of  jack-knives;  the 
playground  was  wide  and  open  to  the  sun  ;  a  high 

'  brick  wall,  with  great  gates  studded  with  spikes  of  a 
-  size  to  daunt  the  most  venturesome  boy,'  enclosed  the 
grounds  ;  and  beyond  lay  the  sweet  English  landscape 
of  green  lanes,  softly  rolling  fields,  great  trees  with 
"  the  memories  of  forgotten  centuries  still  murmuring 
in  their  branches  ;  and  behind  the  visible  landscape 
was  that  other  landscape  which  is  always  unfolding 
itself  to  the  imagination  in  that  ripe  old  world.^  The 
neighborhood  was  rich  in  the  most  romantic  history. 


XIV 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


The  names  of  its  walks  recalled  Henry  and  Eliza- 
beth;  Anne  Boleyn  and  the  Earl  of  Leicester  had 
ive  there;  Essex  had  found  his  home  there;  and  i 
there,  too,  was  one  of  the  original  homes  of  English 
literature,  for  there  De  Foe  had  written  the  earliest  5 
story  of  adventure  and  the  earliest  piece  of  perfectly  ) 
developed  fiction  in  the  language. 

Hot  far  distant  stood  the  ancient  church.  In  Will-  ' 
zam  mison,  which  curiously  predicts  Dr.  Jekyll  and 
Mr.  Hyde,  there  are  unmistakable  autobiographic  ^ 
touches,  and  the  manner  of  these  recollections  throws  ■ 
light  on  the  processes  of  the  boy^s  imagination  and  ^ 
the  life  he  lived  among  his  fellows: _ 


My  earliest  recollections  of  a  school-life  are  connected  with 
a  toge  rambling,  Elizabethan  house,  in  a  misty-looking  village 
of  England,  where  were  a  vast  number  of  gigantic  and  gnarled 
rees,  and  where  all  the  houses  were  excessively  ancient.  In 
ruth.  It  was  a  dream-like  and  spirit-soothing  place,  that  ven¬ 
erable  town.^  At  this  moment,  in  fancy,  I  feel  the  refreshing 
chilliness  of  its  deep-shadowed  avenues,  inhale  the  fragrance  of 
Its  thousand  shrubberies,  and  thrill  anew  with  undefinable  de¬ 
light,  at  the  deep  hollow  note  of  the  church  bell,  breaking,  each 
hour,  with  sullen  and  sudden  roar,  upon  the  stillness  of  the 

dusky  atmosphere  in  which  the  fretted  Gothic  steeple  lay  im¬ 
bedded  and  asleep.  ^ 


The  school  house,  the  narrative  goes  on  to  say, _ 

was  old  and  irre^lar.  The  grounds  were  extensive,  and  a 
high  and  solid  brick  wall,  topped  with  a  bed  of  mortar  and 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


XV 


broken  glass,  encompassed  the  whole.  This  prison-like  ram¬ 
part  formed  the  limit  of  our  domain ;  beyond  it  we  saw  but 
thrice  a  week  —  once  every  Saturday  afternoon,  when,  attended 
by  two  ushers,  we  were  permitted  to  take  brief  walks  in  a  body 
through  some  of  the  neighboring  fields  —  and  twice  during  Sun¬ 
day,  when  we  were  paraded  in  the  same  formal  manner  to  the 
morning  and  evening  service  in  the  one  church  of  the  village. 
Of  this  church  the  principal  of  our  school  was  pastor.  With 
how  deep  a  spirit  of  wonder  and  perplexity  was  I  wont  to  re¬ 
gard  him  from  our  remote  pew  in  the  gallery,  as,  with  solemn 
step  and  slow,  he  ascended  the  pulpit !  This  reverend  man, 
with  countenance  so  demurely  benign,  with  robes  so  glossy  and 
so  clerically  flowing,  with  wig  so  minutely  powdered,  so  rigid 
and  so  vast  —  could  this  be  he  who,  of  late,  with  sour  visage, 

I  and  in  snuffy  habiliments,  administered,  ferule  in  hand,  the 

I  Draconian  Laws  of  the  academy  ?  Oh,  gigantic  paradox,  too 
utterly  monstrous  for  solution  ! 

i  The  old  house  is  'described  as  a  veritable  palace 
of  enchantmeut ;  and  the  routine  of  a  schoolboy’s  life 
—  recitations,  study  hours,  half-holiday  rambles,  the 
broils  and  pleasures  of  the  playground  —  become,  “by 
a  mental  sorcery  long  forgotten, ...  a  wilderness  of  sen¬ 
sation,  a  world  of  rich  incident,  an  universe  of  varied 
emotion,  of  excitement  the  most  passionate  and  spirit- 
stirring.”  The  head  master  recognized  Poe’s  cleverness, 
but  thought  him  spoilt  by  excess  of  pocket-money. 
Beneath  the  interest  in  sport,  the  construing  of  Latin 
and  the  learning  of  French,  there  must  have  been  a 
wonderfully  vivid  life  of  imagination  in  the  proud, 


xvi 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


sensitive,  and  lonely  boy.  The  English  landscape 
with  which  he  became  familiar  never  faded,  and  re¬ 
appeared,  especially  in  its  architectural  features,  again 
and  again  in  his  stories.  The  mellow  atmosphere, 
the  gnarled  and  mossy  trees,  the  half-ruined  house, 
the  rich  verdure  of  meadow  and  lane,  were  easily 
touched  with  an  overripe  and  mel^choly  beauty,  ; 
akin  to  the  loneliness  of  desolate  spirits  and  solitary  i 

experiences,  by  the  active  imagination  of  a  later . 
period.  , 

The  Allans  returned  to  Richmond  in  1820,  and 
Edgar  became  the  pupil  of  a  solemn  and  pedantic 
Irishman,  read  the  classics,  made  Latin  verses,  and 
gained  greater  ease  in  French.  He  had  already  begun 
to  wiite  verses,  but  his  schoolfellows  knew  him  as 
a  brilliant  student,  irregular  and  desultory  in  his  ' 
work,  but  doing  with  ease  whatever  he  undertook ;  i 
lacking  in  accuracy  and  thoroughness,  but  quick  and 
versatile;  fond  of  reading  ;  satirical  in  temper;  slight 
in  figure,  but  well  made,  sinewy,  active,  and  graceful ; 
a  daring  swimmer;  scrupulously  neat  in  dress  and  ' 
noticeably  courteous  in  manner.  He  had  winning 
qualities,  but  he  was  not  popular  with  his  fellows.  | 
The  fact  that  he  was  the  child  of  strolling  players 
was  not  forgotten  by  them  nor  by  himself;  through  i 
all  the  luxury  which  surrounded  him,  it  remained  t 
a  painful  reminder  of  other  and  less  fortunate  con-  ' 


\ 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


XVll 


ditions.  He  was  proud,  sensitive,  solitary,  and  the 
slight  chill  of  disapproval  in  the  air  about  him 
evoked  a  defiant  spirit.  One  who  was  on  terms 
approaching  intimacy  with  him  described  him  as 
“  self-willed,  capricious,  inclined  to  be  imperious,  and, 
though  of  generous  impulses,  not  steadily  kind  or 
even  amiable.’^  There  was  something  in  his  nature, 
then  and  later,  which  held  him  back  from  complete 
confidence  in  men ;  he  had  warm  friends  among  men, 
and  at  least  two  women  were  devoted  to  him,  but  the 
frank  and  generous  freedom,  the  wholesome  inter¬ 
change  of  confidence  between  man  and  man,  he  seems 
never  to  have  known.  There  was  a  touch  of  unreality 
in  his  life  as  there  was,  later,  in  his  art;  he  was  not 
only  a  dreamer,  as  some  of  the  sanest  men  have 
been,j  ■fet  he  never  quite  clearly  discovered  and 
cepted^ the  distance  between  the  actual  and  the  imagi- 
naryT]  One  never  feels  entirely  at  home  with  him ; 
not  because  such  unusual  tracts  of  experience  are 
open  to  him,  but  because  there  is  an  elusive  element 
in  him,  —  a  lack  of  large,  deep,  rich  humanity  beneath 
his  talent.  ^This  element  of  unreality  ^  made  ^  solid 
friendship  quite  impossible  ;^^|n^M^limited  his  art 
in  certain  respects  quite  as  distinctly  as  it  limited 
his  characteS3 

While  he  was  in  this  critical  stage  of  adolescence. 
Toe  lost  a  friend  who  might  have  been  a  steadying 


J 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  I 

influence  in  the  perilous  years  before  him ;  a  lovely,  1 
generous,  and  gracious  woman,  whose  first  sympa-  f 
thetic  words  to  him  thrilled  his  heart  and  evoked  1 
a  passionate  devotion.  Mrs.  Stanard  was  the  mother  | 
of  one  of  his  mates,  and  had,  therefore,  ready  access  i 
to  his  confidence;  she  became  his  confidant,  and  he  I 
lavished  upon  her  the  affection  which  he  would  have  i 
given  his  mother.  But  within  a  few  months  she  1 
died,  and  the  boy,  who  had  found  warmth  and  light  j 
in  her  compehending  affection,  was  almost  pros-  ? 
trated  by  grief.  He  haunted  her  grave  and,  in  the  j 
passionate  melancholy  which  possessed  him,  became  | 
aware  of  the  tragic  resources  of  a  temperament  singu-  ^ 
larly  accessible  to  misfortune  and  singularly  sensitive  I 
to  the  mystery  of  grief  and  despair,  -  a  temperament  1 
which  seemed  to  assimilate  the  latent  sadness  of  life  I 
and  to  respond  to  the  experiences  of  outcast  and  de-  | 
spaiiing  souls  in  a  speech,  both  in  prose  and  verse 
which  magically  gave  back  their  most  elusive  tones.  ' 

In  1825  Poe  entered  the  University  of  Virginia,  ' 
which,  in  that  year,  opened  its  doors  to  students  and  . 
began  its  influential  career;  an  institution  then  and  ; 
^ill,  in  many  respects;  unique  in  the  academic  world. 

He  was  in  his  seventeenth  year,  compactly  built,  some¬ 
what  short  in  stature,  his  face  touched  with  sadness, 
but  readily  becoming  animated.  He  entered  the  schools 
of  ancient  and  modern  languages,  studied  Latin,  Greek,  , 


I 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


XIX 


French,  Spanish,  and  Italian,  after  a  desultory  fashion ; 
played  cards  for  stakes,  and  showed  that  taste  for 
strong  drink  which  later  made  his  career  a  tragedy. 
At  this  period,  gambling  rather  than  excessive  drink¬ 
ing  was  his  undoing.  Becoming  involved  in  debt,  he 
had  to  invoke  the  aid  of  Mr.  Allan,  who  paid  his 
j  debts  in  Charlottesville,  but  refused  to  make  good 
I  his  losses  at  play,  amounting  to  the  very  respectable 
sum  of  twenty-five  hundred  dollars.  Poe  remained  at 
the  university  until  the  close  of  the  session,  and  re¬ 
turned  home  with  honors  in  Latin  and  French  to  find 
1  that  his  future  was  to  be  in  Mr.  Allan’s  counting-room. 
His  irregularities  had  cost  him  his  educational  oppor¬ 
tunities. 

He  took  his  place  in  Mr.  Allan’s  counting-room  only 
to  disappear  and  begin  the  unsettled,  roving  career 
which  never  again  found  permanent  lodgment  or 
shelter.  He  next  appears  in  Boston,  where  he  made 
his  first  venture  in  the  field  to  which  his  tastes  and  his 
genius  were  steadily  and  with  increasing  insistence 
drawing  him.  To/fifiGTlcLns  cLnd  OtJiST  PoqWjS  was  the 
venture  of  an  amateur  publisher,  but  it  had  some  suc- 
cess."^^  revealed  the  sensibility  of  a  poetic  nature 
rather  than  poetic  poweFf^was  full  of  traces  of  imita¬ 
tion,  and  its  chief  interest  lies  in  the  light  which  it 
throws  on  Poe’s  mind  and  growth.  Byron  was  in  the 
full  tide  of  his  immense  influence  upon  young  men  of 


XX 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


imaginative  temper,  and  Poe  did  not  escape  a  fever 
which  was  not  only  highly  contagious,  but,  in  the  case 
of  all  weak  victims,  fatal  to  original  and  natural  de¬ 
velopment.  Byron’s  colossal  pride  found  a  quick 
soil  in  Poe’s  naturejfmid^ confirmed  his  tendency  to 
idealize  pride  as  a  heroic~qu^lr^t7^ 

But  a  slender  volume  of  verse  was  a  very  fragile  reed 
to  lean  upon,  and,  by  way  of  cutting  the  Gordian  knot 
with  a  sword,  in  1827  Poe  enlisted  in  the  United  States 
army  as  a  private  soldier,  under  the  name  of  Edgar 
A.  Perry.  After  a  service  of  two  years,  in  which  he 
appears  to  have  done  his  work  with  entire  fidelity 
and  noticeable  efficiency,  he  was  discharged  largely 
through  the  kindly  offices  of  Mr.  Allan,  with  whom  he 
had  effected  a  reconciliation.  About  this  time  he 
wrote :  « I  am  young  —  not  yet  twenty  —  am  a  poet 

if  deep  worship  of  all  beauty  can  make  me  one _ 

and  wish  to  be  so  in  the  common  meaning  of  the 
word.  I  would  give  the  world  to  embody  one  half 
the  ideas  afloat  in  my  imagination,”  and  by  way  of 
justifying  these  statements  Al  Aaraaf,  Tamerlane, 
and  Minor  Poems  were  published  in  Baltimore,  in 
1829.  The  habit  of  slightly  or  radically  revising  a 
piece  of  work  which  had  already  appeared  and  send¬ 
ing  it  out  in  a  new  form,  dates  from  his  second  volume 
and  grew  upon  him  as  time  went  on.  Al  Aaraaf  was 
an  obscure  allegory,  with  a  brief  narrative  passage  and 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


XXI 


an  abrupt  ending;  Tamerlane  showed  signs  of  care¬ 
ful  revision,  but  gained,  rather  than  lost,  in  imitative 
quality.  In  Fairyland  alone  among  his  earliest  poems 
is  there  a  clear  and  convincing  glimpse  of  Poe’s  genius. 

In  the  following  year  Poe  is  found  at  West  Point; 
Mr.  Allan  had  married  a  second  time,  and  had,  in  his 
judgment,  finally  disposed  of  his  difficult  ward  by  secur¬ 
ing  for  him  an  appointment  to  the  Military  Academy. 
He  is  described  at  this  period  as  shy  and  reserved, 
associating  mainly  with  cadets  from  Virginia,  a  ready 
French  scholar,  apt  at  mathematics,  an  omnivorous 
reader  of  books;  but  neglectful,  and  even  contemp¬ 
tuous  of  military  duties.  He  paid  no  regard  to  the 
routine  of  roll-call,  drill,  and  guard  duty,  was  often 
under  arrest,  and  at  the  end  of  six  months’  service 
was  dismissed  by  court-martial,  on  the  charge  of 
absenting  himself  from  various  military  and  academic 
duties,  and  of  disobeying  on  two  occasions  the  orders 
of  the  officer  of  the  day.  In  March,  1831,  Poe  was 
again  free  to  seek  his  fortune,  and  he  was  again  penni¬ 
less.  He  had  arranged,  meantime,  for  the  publication 
of  a  new  edition  of  his  works  and  the  volume  entitled 
“Poems”  appeared,  this  time  in  New  York.  It  v/as 
a  new  edition  in  name  only.  From  the  previously 
published  volume  six  poems  were  omitted,  several 
were  greatly  changed,  and  six  additional  pieces  were 
included.  W'ith  the  appearance  of  these  new  pieces 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


xxil 


all  doubt  about  Poe’s  genius  was  finally  dispelled; 
for  these  additional  poems  were  Lenore,  The  Valley 
of  Unrest,  The  City  in  the  Sea,  To  Helen,  and  Isror 
fel.  These  poems  were  to  attain  perfection  by  many 
later  touches,  but  both  in  conception  and  in  form 
they  disclose  all  that  was  original  and  distinctive 
t  in  Poe’s  mind  and  art.  Ole  was  already  traversing 
those  remote  and  mysterious  worlds,  lighted  by  low 
moons,  haunted  by  strange  tragic  figures,  with  back¬ 
grounds  of  marvellously  drawn  landscape,  sombre, 


weird,  and  solitary,  with  which  he  was  to  familiarize 


his  readers  both  in  prose  and  verse;  while  his  art 
'  shows  perfect  sympathy  and  understanding  between 
his  thought  and  his  skill.  He  had  the  magic  of  style ; 
'j  he  was  a  master  of  sound  if  not  of  language,  and  more 
■‘perfectly  than  any  other  American  poet  he  knows  how 
:  to  beguile  the  ear  by  a  melody  which  is  at  once  simple 
and  mysterious,  which  captivates  the  instant  it  is 
heard,  and  yet  eludes  all  attempts  at  successful  imita- 
tio^  There  is  something  hypnotic  in  the  spell  of  his 
verse  which  gives  one  an  uneasy  sense  that  he  is  yield¬ 
ing  to  a  charm  addressed  to  his  senses  rather  than  to 
his  imagination.  In  The  Raven  and  The  Bells  this  hyp¬ 
notic  quality  is  at  its  highest,  and  the  higher  poetic 
quality  at  its  lowest ;  the  outer  courts  of  the  soul  are 
swept  with  sound,  but  the  inner  court  remains  silent, 
question  about  the  reality  of  and  its  ea 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


XXlll 


tire  sincerity  has  undoubtedly  stood  in  the  way  not  of 
its  wider,  but  of  its  higher  appreciation  in  this  coun- 
try^But  this  suspicion  of  the  predominance  of  a 
purely  sensuous  over  genuine  poetic  quality  which 
finds  con^hiafibn  in  The  Raven  and  The  Bells  has  no 


place  in  the  consideration  of  such  perfection  of  sense 
and  sound  as  the  lines  To  Helen,  The  City  in  the  Sea^ 
and  Israfel.  The  first  of  these  pieces  is  so  slight  in  ^ 
thought  that  its  charm  will  hardly  bear  analysis ;  the 
second  is  a  piece  of  description  which  shows  Poe’s 
power  of  this  kind  at  its  best ;  the  third  is  not  only  the 
most  tender  and  beautiful  expression  of  Poe’s  genius, 
but,  in  the  region  of  pure  song,  it  is  one  of  the  final¬ 
ities  in  American  poetry.  In  imaginative  conception, 
and  in  form  it  is  one  of  the  finalities  of  modern  art. 

It  has  the  ease,  the  floating  quality,  the  natural  magic 
of  those  rare  lyrics  which  are  equally  at  home  in  the 
memory  and  the  heart  of  the  race. 

Meantime  the  poet  was  barely  recognized,  was  without 
means  of  support,  had  exhausted  the  patience  of  Mr. 
Allan,  wasted  several  opportunities,  and  was  now  to 
face  the  world  at  his  own  charges.  He  made  his  next 
experiment  in  the  art  of  living  in  Baltimore,  where  he 
had  friends  and  where  there  were  a  number  of  littera¬ 
teurs  of  local  importance,  and  a  weekly  literary  jour¬ 
nal.  This  journal.  The  Saturday  Visitor,  offered  a 
prize  of  one  hundred  dollars  for  the  best  prose  story  j 


XXIV 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


the  prize  was  awarded  to  A  MS.  Found  in  a  Bottle^  j 
and  the  story  was  published  in  the  autumn  of  1833.  i 
Poe’s  fortunes  were  at  so  low  an  ebb  that  he  was  declin-  ; 
ing  invitations  because  he  could  not  dress  presentably, 
and  the  stimulus  of  success  in  a  practical  form  was  of  ' 
immense  value  to  him.  He  was  living  with  his  father’s 
widowed  sister,  Mrs.  Clemm,  whose  daughter,  Virginia,  | 
was  then  eleven  years  old.*  The  poet  had  now  fairly 
launched  himself  on  the  uncertain  tide  of  literary  for-  ) 
tune,  had  clearly  shown  his  individual  quality,  both  in  i 
prose  and  verse,  and  there  was  but  one  more  event 
needed  to  commit  him  entirely  to  his  profession,  and  . 
that  event  came  in  1834,  when  Mr.  Allan  died  and  left  , 
him  without  an  inheritance.  He  was  writing  stories 
and  criticisms,  and  he  was  drinking  too  often  and  too  • 
freely.  Qjis  sensitive  nervous  system,  his  irregular  i 
life,  the  privation  and  strain  of  constant  change  and  ■ 
uncertainty,  his  fitful  and  melancholy  temperament,' 
and  the  intensity  of  his  imagination  made  him  an  easy 
prey  to  intemperance  and  an  easily  shattered  victim,  i 
Nothing  could  have  saved  him  except  a  strong  will ;  ^ 
and,  unluckily,  he  belonged  to  the  class  whose  tern- 
peraments  are  in  command  of  their  will^  At  this 
time,  however,  his  excesses  were  infrequent,  and  there 
is  no  doubt  of  the  sincerity  of  his  effort  to  free  himself 
from  a  weakness  to  the  perils  of  which  he  seems  never  | 
to  have  been  blind.  I 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


XXV 


The  attachment  between  Poe  and  his  cousin  Virginia 
ripened  into  love  and  became  the  deepest  and  noblest 
passion  of  his  life.  The  sensitive  girl  was  barely  thir¬ 
teen,  but  in  September,  1835,  the  marriage  took  place. 
Poe  had  removed  to  Pichmond,  was  editing  the  South¬ 
ern  Literary  Messenger,  and  was  writing  poems,  stories, 
and  reviews  with  evident  ease  and  delight.  In  one  of 
these  stories  Poe  brings  on  the  stage  the  figure  in 
whose  temperament  and  fate  he  was  most  deeply  inter¬ 
ested  and  who,  under  various  names,  was  to  reappear 
again  and  again  in  his  later  tales. 

^/^^gg0us  in  Berenice  belongs  to  the  race  of  visionaries 
whose  sphere  of  interest  and  experience  touches  the 
realities  of  life  only  at  rare  intervals  and  then  solely 
for  the  sake  of- heightening  the  sense  of  its  difference 
and  remoteness.  ^Gloomy  towers,  gray  hereditary  halls, 
a  solitary  and  desolate  landscape,  subtly  suggest  to  the 
senses  the  tragedy  of  disordered  fancy,  morbid'  tem¬ 
perament,  diseased  will,  and  abnormal  fate  which  is 
to  be  worked  out  in  a  series  of  impressions  designed  to 
envelop  the  reader  in  an  atmosphere  of  melancholy  fore¬ 
bodings.^  The  moment  one  breathes  the  air  of  Poe’s  tales 
an  oppre^ive  sense  of  something  ominous  and  sinister 
is  felt.(^r  Poe  had  the  art  which  Maeterlinck  has  so 
successnmy  practised,  of  securing  possession  of  the 
reader’s  mind  by  assailing  his  sensex^^ne  after^he 
other  with  the  sa‘m^'"^et~uf~~^gTi^ationsr^Po'6^s  tales, 


xxvi 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


to  constructed 

to  shut  the  reader  m  by  excluding  all  other  obiects 

nd  impressions  until  his  imagination  is  entirely  at 

he  mercy  of  the  story-teller,  Lilie  those  Egypton 

temples  which  produced,  by  architectural  devtoes  an 

mpression  of  depth  and  space,  out  of  all  propS  to 

their  magnitude,  Poe’s  tales  have  not  only^/e “us 

power  of  their  construction,  but  the  more  magical  and 

usive  influence  of  imaginative  suggestion.  Ij^te  are 

entirely  under  their  splig  They  withdraw  us  com-  ; 

the* t  "'ith  which 

reut^  one  “Ranged  in  the  iQpera  House  at  Bay- 
fu  e  el  merging  into  another  so  gradually 

totofn  transported  from  the  suflit  glade 

senses  are  / consciousness  th/t  his 
into \he  rear“^f  rT  transition 

beguiltoVTh“i  f  "^are  and  so  ' 

g  ing  that  he  almost  persuades  us  that  we  are 

dealing  wrth  realities  and  not  with  abstractions. 

Egaeus  has  no  human  warmth  or  passion  :  although 

like  most  of  Poe’s  heroes,  he  is  consumed  with  the 

anrnefer  veritable  phantasm, 

of  reX .  hL"fr“  ««““ance 

ing  ofi!n’  fa  T  f  e  ^cc’s  artistic  feel- 

g  often  failed  to  keep  him  in  the  realm  of  pure 

suggestion  in  dealing  with  tne  horrible.  In  the  most 


XXVll 


EDQAR  ALLAN  POE 

,  i 

perfect  of  the  prose  tales,  The  Fall  of  the  House_j>f 
Jhher.  Ligeia,  Eleonora,  and^T^  Masque  of  the'^ed 
Death,  the  full  force  of  Poe’s  marvellous  accuracy  and 
j  nraisip.mMa.ncp.  of  detail  is,  felt  by  the  imagination;  but 
it  must  be  added  that  the  failure  to  completely  possess 
the  mind  of  the  reader  is  due  to  no  limitation  in  Poe’s 
art;  it  is  due  to  the  limitation  of  his  material.  He 
went  as  far  on  the  road  to  complete  illusion  as  his 
subject-matter  permitted;  but  his  subject-matter  was 
so  largely  made  up  of  the  morbid,  the  abnormal,  the 
phantasmal,  that  it  can  never  seem  other  than  it  was 
in  its  substance.  these  tales,  so  full  of  powerful 
effects  and  charms  wrought  out  of  the  potencies  of 
sin,  disease,  solitary  desolation,  abnormal  play  of  the 
senses'^oe’s  artistic  quality  is  supreme ;  in  them,  as 
in  halfadbzeh-po^msj'he  is  one  of  the  modern  masters 
of  technique ;  and  their  limitations  as  works  of  art  must 
be  sought  not  in  the  skill  but  in  the  soul  of  the  work¬ 
man.  ^jThat  limitation  is  found  in  the  fact  that  Poe 
deals  with  experience  of  a  very  narrow  and  limited 
kind ;  with  emotions,  passions,  and  tendencies  which 
are  PYpApfinti^l  abnormal  ;  with  landscapes  and- 
localities  which  a^  essentially  phantasmal  and  unreal, 
m  the  sense  of  being  purely  imaginary,  but  of 
fving  outside  tff^range  of  ima'gm^on  creating_aIong 

-IrTThA  exact  degree  in  which  a  writer  deals  with 


XXVlll 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


life  in  the  most  inclusive  forms  of  experience  does  he 
reveal  breadth  of  view,  sanity  of  insight,  and  con¬ 
structive  power.  These  are  the  characteristics  of 
writers  of  the  first  and  second  rank ;  of  Homer,  Dante, 
and  Shakespere,  and  of  Cervantes,  Moliere,  Schiller, 
and  Tennyson,  ^nd  because  of  this  breadth  of  view 
and  of  sympathetic  insight,  these  writers  are  one  and 
all  representative  or  interpretative  artists ;  they  make 
their  art  the  medium  of  the  disclosure  and  expression 
of  race  experience  on  a  large  scale.  'In  tMsj*epresent- 
afiye  quality  Poe  is  almost  utterly  lacking;  he  was 
detachednjn” imagination  from  the  world  about  him.  i 
His  tales  and  poems  bear  the  trace  of  no  fatherland ;  | 

they  have  no  racial  marks  upon  them.  And  this  lack  \ 
of  representative  quality  carries  with  it  a  certain 
limitation  of  insight,  of  interest,  and  of  artistic  power 
which  excludes  Poe  from  the  company  of  the  greater  ' 
poets.  4jle  has  neither  the  depth  of  emotion  nor  the 
solidity  of  thought  which  the  great  artists  share. 
There  is  a  touch  of  unreality  about  his  passion  as 
well  as  about  his  material ;  he  is  never  quite  convinc¬ 
ing,  even  in  the  expression  of  the  deepest  feeli;^ 

/It  is  as  a  poet  and  story-teller  of  purely  individual 
quality  that  Poe  must  be  regarded,  and  in  the  class 
of  those  who  stand  apart  and  speak  for  themselves 
only  he  holds  a  very  sure  place.  His  stories  place 
him  with  Hoffmann,  his  verse  associates  him  with  Leo-  i 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


XXIX 


pardi  and  Baudelaire.  He  has  more  genius  than  Hoff¬ 
mann;  his  melancholy  has  not  the  tinge  of  bitterness 
which  made  Leopardi  one  of  the  forerunners  of  mod¬ 
ern  literary'”^^^^simism.  He  belongs  with  these  writ¬ 


ers  not  because  his^^rk  resembles  theirs,  but  because, 


like  them,  he  was  a  man  of  detached  and  solitary  gen- 
iiis^^^h  an  individuality  of  talent  so  distinct  that  it 
is  impossible  to  classify  hiii^Tndeed,  in  his  case,  com¬ 
parison  with  other  poets  ana  story-writers  is  of  value 
chiefly  as  bringing  into  higher  relief  his  unique  indi¬ 
viduality  of  imagination,  temperament,  material,  and 
method. 

If~Poe  lost  by  the  narrowness  of  his  range  and 
of  his  artistic  power,  he  gained  in  definiteness  of  im¬ 
pression  and  in  directness  of  influence,  •'^^he  artist 
who  creates  his  world  and  resolutely  keeps  within  its 


limits;  has  the  great  advantage  of  assailing  his  reader 


with  a  few  harmonious  and  original  impressions.  Ten¬ 
nyson’s  quality  must  be  searched  for;  Poe’s  is  felt  at 
ojice^  The  magic  which  lies  in  The  City  in  the 
Sea  and  in  Israfel,  vaJThe  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher, 
and  in  Ligeia  is  ^t  at  once,  and .  the  conceptions 
and  impressions  which  it  conveys  or  suggests  are  so 
uuusnal  and  so  disUnct  in  their  quality,  that  they 
take  lustflut  -poftResaion  of  the  im agihation.  Health  is 
%iuch  more  elusive  than  disease  T)ecause,  being  essen- 
tially  harmony  of  condition  and  action  among  all  parts 


XXX  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

pi-JJie  body,  it  has  no  local  consciousness  f  while  dis¬ 
ease,  iir^lving  maladjustment  and  pain  at  some  defi¬ 
nite  point,  creates  jin  intense  local  consciousness,  and 
produces  a  sharp  and  poignant  impression.  By  seiz¬ 
ing  upon  morbid  and  disordered  mental  and  moral 
experiences,  passions,  and  pursuits,  and  creating  con¬ 
ditions  which  harmonize  with  and  heighten  their 
peculiar  effects,  Poe  gained  instant  power  with  a  class 
of  minds  never  very  large  in  number  but  always, 
ardent  in  discipleship  and  full  of  talent.  His  influ¬ 
ence  upon  a  small  group  of  writers  in  Prance  and  Ger¬ 
many,  and  the  regard  in  which  he  has  been  held  by 
contemporary  English  poets,  has  not  been  understood 
in  this  country,  nor  has  sufficient  attention  been  paid 
to  it.  This  influence  had  its  source,  in  the  case  of 
some  of  the  continental  poets  and  story-writers,  in 
Poe’s  power  in  dealing  with  morbid  and  abnormal 
conditions,  and  in  the  case  of  men  like  Tennyson  in 
the  perfection  of  his  art. 

It  requires  an  entire  rearrangement  of  the  present 
impression  of  Poe  to  think  of  him  chiefly,  not  as  a 
poet„.aiid— ^tory-writer,  but  as  a  critic.  It  was  as 
a  critic,  however,  that 'he  was  most  highly  regarded, 
although  not  most  widely  known  by  his  contempo¬ 
raries.  And  it  was  in  the  columns  of  The  Southern 
Literary  Messenger  that  his  critical  gift  first  disclosed 
itself.  In  December,  1835,  Poe  fastened  upon  a  recent 


\ 


EDGAR  ALLAE  FOE 


xxxi 


aiid  widely  exploited  novel  of  a  very  inferior  quality, 
Norman  Leslie,  as  an  example  of  the  provincial  taste 
which  prevailed  in  the  country  and  hindered  the 
growth  of  a  genuine  literature  by  the  failure  to  dis¬ 
criminate  between  the  good  and  the  bad  in  literary 
art.  There  was  a  small  body  of  admirable  writers  in 
the  country,  but  there  was  no  authoritative  and  search¬ 
ing  criticism.  Local  feelings  were  stronger,  in  many 
cases,  than  the  critical  instinct.  The  New  Englander 
and  the  Knickerbocker,  the  two  periodicals  which  had 
some  claims  upon  cultivated  opinion,  were  not  free 
from  local  prejudices,  even  when  they  rose  above 
personal  predilections.  Poe  exposed  the  pretentious 
crudity  of  Norman  Leslie  with  a  frankness  which  was 
evidently  not  distasteful  to  himself,  and  with  such 
force  and  intelligence  that  he  secured  instant  attention 
and  wide  recognition  as  a  critic  of  ideas  and  convic¬ 
tions.  During  the  remaining  sixteen  years  of  his  life 
Poe  supported  himself  chiefly  by  editorial  and  journal¬ 
istic  work  ;  he  had  inventiveness  and  skill  in  adapting 
the  various  publications  with  which  he  was  connected 
to  public  taste ;  but  he  was  by  interest  and  qualifica¬ 
tion  a  critic  of  contemporary  English  and  American 
literatuT’e.  He  lacked  the  spiritual  insight  which  has 
made  the  great  critics  not  only  the  custodians  of  the 
literary  tradition,  but  the  interpreters  of  literary  art ; 
he  had  neither  the  breadth  of  view  of  Goethe,  the 


XXXll 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


grasp  of  philosophical  principles  of  Coleridge,  of  whom 
he  was,  in  a  sense,  a  pupil,  nor  the  clear  intelligence 
of  Arnold.  He  was,  however,  a  thinker  with  a  marked 
aptitude  for  analysis,  and  a  lover  of  general  principles 
often  abstract  and  somewhat  artificial  in  application, 
but  essentially  sound;  he  had  a  very  keen  sense  of 
form ;  his  knowledge  was  extensive  although  not 
always  accurate;  and  he  was  not  averse  to  contro¬ 
versy.  He  was  out  of  sympathy  with  the  vigorous 
literary  movement  which  was  fast  taking  on  large 
proportions  in  Boston  ;  and  although  he  spent  a  good 
deal  of  time  in  New  York,  the  superficiality  of  the 
later  Knickerbocker  school  was  always  distasteful  to 
him. 

The  time  was  ripe  for  frank  and  disinterested  criti¬ 
cism,  and  Poe  not  only  recognized  the  opportunity  but 
regarded  himself  as  having  definite  reformatory  work 
to  do.  He  was  a  born  lover  of  beauty  and  of  art  for 
its  own  sake,  without  reference  to  anything  beyond 
or  beneath  the  immediate  impression  produced ;  and 
he  was,  therefore,  well  adapted  to  the  task  of  judging 
a  generation  whose  limited  intelligence  and  uncertain 
taste  in  matters  of  workmanship  made  it  the  dupe 
or  the  victim  of  the  cheap,  the  meretricious,  and  pre¬ 
tentious  in  contemporary  writing.  His  collected  re¬ 
views  and  critical  articles  fill  three  volumes  in  the 
edition  of  his  works  edited  with  such  scholarly  thor- 


EDGAR  ALLAK  POE  xxxiii 

oughness  and  literary  judgment  by  Mr.  Stedman  and 
Professor  Woodberry,  and  these  selections  present 
only  a  part  of  his  work  in  this  field ;  for  Poe  was  a 
Yoluminous  writer,  in  spite  of  the  vicissitudes  of  his ' 
career.  Much  of  his  critical  writing  was  of  slight 
value ;  none  of  it  is  likely  to  survive  by  reason  of  its 
intrinsic  interest,  for  Poe  was  creative  and  masterful 
only  when  his  imagination  was  in  play.  But  his  criti¬ 
cal  work  absorbed  a  large  part  of  his  time ;  it  attracted 
wide  attention  among  his  contemporaries,  and  it  filled 
an  important  place  in  the  literary  development  of  the 
country.  He  was  quick  to  recognize  excellence,  and 
his  early  discernment  of  Hawthorne’s  quality  must 
always  be  remembered  to  his  credit ;  he  hated  slovenly 
work  and  vulgarity  of  manner,  and  never  hesitated  to 
hold  them  up  to  ridicule;  he  meant  to  be  impartial 
and  disinterested ;  but  he  was  sometimes  misled  by 
his  own  wilfulness  of  mind,  as  when  he  'failed  to 
discriminate  between  Longfellow’s  frank  and  open 
use  of  existing  literary  material  and  plagiarism ;  and 
he  was  sometimes  blinded  by  his  theories  of  art, 
as  in  his  sweeping  condemnation  of  the  writers  who 
were  more  or  less  in  sympathy  with  the  Transcen¬ 
dental  movement.  He  was  not  entirely  free  from 
those  personal  influences  which  at  times  deflect  the 
judgment  of  most  critics :  he  was  sometimes  led  away 
by  the  showy  brilliancy  of  a  momentary  success ;  his 


XXXIV 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


poise  was  disturbed  by  his  own  conditions;  he  often 
wrote  under  great  pressure  and  without  due  consider- > 
ation  and  self-restraint.  His  critical  work  was,  how¬ 
ever,  in  the  main,  sound,  wholesome,  and  of  great 
value  in  educating  public  opinion.  The  fact  that  his  “ 
estimates  of  Bryant,  Cooper,  Hawthorne,  Lowell,  and 
Tennyson,  formed  when  these  writers  were  making ; 
the  first  disclosures  of  their  genius,  were  largely  pre¬ 
dictive  of  the  judgment  of  a  later  and  more  critical 
age,  is  conclusive  evidence  of  his  possession  of  critical ; 
insight  and  power. 

Poe  was  now  twenty-seven,  and  his  wife  not  yet 
fourteen.  The  Messenger  was  making  rapid  gains  in 
influence  and  circulation ;  the  Southern  press  was 
singing  the  praises  of  the  young  poet  and  critic,  and 
the  cooler  judgment  of  the  North  recognized  his 
genius ;  there  seemed  to  be  solid  foundation  for  fu¬ 
ture  growth  and  work;  but  at  the  end  of  eighteen 
months  the  successful  young  editor  had  resigned  his 
position  on  the  Messenger  and  was  trying  to  gain  a 
foothold  in  New  York.  Although  an  indefatigable 
worker,  with  a  keen  sense  of  the  business  aspects 
of  editorial  work  and  a  skilful  advertiser  of  his  own 
successes,  Poe  was  of  a  temperament  which  became 
restive  under  recurring  duties  and  the  necessity  of 
observing  times  and  seasons ;  there  were,  moreover, 
occasional  excesses  which  mercilessly  drained  his 


EDGAR  ALLAN  ROE 


XXXV 


vitality.  In  many  respects  Poe  was  better  placed  at 
Kichmond,  in  charge  of  .the  leading  literary  journal 
of  the  South,  among  people  who  were  warmly  attached 
to  him,  in  a  section  which  recognized  his  leadership 
and  gave  him  unstinted  admiration,  than  at  any  other 
time  in  his  troubled  and  wandering  life.  His  genius 
placed  him  on  an  easy  equality  with  the  rising  group 
of  New  England  writers ;  he  was  bred  under  other 
conditions  and  was  the  exponent  of  a  different  con¬ 
ception  of  the  literary  art;  to  the  didactic  tendency 
of  New  England  he  opposed  the  love  of  beauty  for 
its  own  sake;  and  he  had  uncommon  skill  as  a  con¬ 
troversialist.  He  was  in  a  position  to  organize  the 
literary  forces  outside  of  New  England  and  to  co¬ 
operate  in  an  expression  of  the  spiritual  life  of  the 
country,  which  would  have  been  measurably  inclu¬ 
sive.  Unfortunately  he  wa^  the  victim  of  his  tem¬ 
perament,  and,  like  all  men  of  his  class,  was  unable 
to  give  his  work  organic  direction  and  completeness. 
His  influence  was  to  be  very  great,  but  it  was  to  lie 
in  other  directions;  the  quality  of  leadership  was 
denied  him. 

Poe  reached  New  York  when  the  financial  panic 
of  1837  was  at  its  height;  established  literary  en¬ 
terprises  were  in  distress,  and  new  ventures  were 
abandoned.  The  Narrative  of  Arthur  Gordon  Pym  ap¬ 
peared  in  the  summer  of  1838,  but  brought  neithei 


XXXVl 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


reputation  nor  material  returns.  It  contains  passages 
which  nobody  but  Poe  could  have  written;  it  also 
contains  passages  which  no  one  but  Poe  would  have 
permitted  himself  to  write,  —  passages  so  revolting  in 
detail  and  so  nauseating  that  they  violate  the  most 
rudimentary  artistic  instinct.  The  little  family  was 
living  meantime  by  the  aid  of  Mrs.  Clemm’s  tireless 
and  measureless  devotion  to  her  daughter  and  her 
daughter’s  husband.  Among  all  women  who  have 
given  their  lives  to  art  through  vicarious  sacrifice, 
Mrs.  Clemm  holds  a  foremost  place.  Her  faith 
matched  her  patience,  and  her  patience  attained  a 
kind  of  epical  dignity  in  her  uncomplaining  and  beau¬ 
tiful  ministry.  Poe  had  the  refuge  of  his  dreams,  his 
fame,  and  the  joy  which  is  never  denied  the  man 
of  creative  mind  however  hard  his  conditions ;  Mrs. 
Clemm  fought  the  sordid  and  inglorious  fight  with 
poverty  day  by  day  and  gave  no  sign. 

In  the  autumn  of  the  same  year,  the  poet  was  try¬ 
ing  to  find  work  in  Philadelphia.  To  this  period 
belong  two  of  his  most  characteristic  pieces :  the  im¬ 
pressive  and  nobly  imaginative  prose  sketch  Silence, 

af ter ^rd  found  its  true  setting 
is — of  _  the  House  of  (Jsh^,  The  Haunted 
all  the  mystery  anfimapj  of  the  poet’s 
genius  at  its  best ;  but  there  lies  at  its  heart  a  lesson 
so  tragic  that  it  jnust  be  a  conclusive  answer  to  those 

)  . 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


XXXV 11 


who  hold  thalLToe^s  fflft  was  wholly  detached^,  from 
mdraTlhsight.  In  1839,  two  vhluines^f  stories  and 
shelves  appeared,  made  up  largely  of  reprints.  The 
sale  was  sm^-llj  although  the  books  contained  some  of 
the  most  original  work  in  modern  literature.  In  The 
Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher  and  Liqeia,ToQ  touched 
the  high-water  rn^k  of  creative  andj^UsticjkHI ;  in 
”slieer  force  of  Imli^natioii  lasEibning  a  form  which  is 
at  the  same  time  sharp  in  outline  and  yet  shading  off 
eyeryyy^e  into  mystery,  these  masterpieces  hold  a 
jface  by  themselves.  In  both  these  pieces,  a  torch  is 
held  aloft  in  the  gloom,  and  serves  both  to  throw  cer¬ 
tain  forms  and  figures  into  bold  relief  and  to  inten¬ 
sify  the  blackness  of  the  darkness  in  which  they  are 
finally  engulfed,  “^^pe  is  seen  here  dealing  with 
abnormal  characters  and  incidents  under  conditions 
which  seem  to  interpret  and  to  vizualize  strange  and 
mysterious  experiences,  excluding  with  marvellous 
skill  all  distracting  sound  or  disturbing  light,  and 
silently  creating,  in  the  imagination  of  his  reader,  a 
theatre  for  the  sombre  tragedy  of  smitten,  wande^ring, 
or  lost  soul^3  In  William  Wilson,  which  appeared  in 
the  same  collection  of  tales,  there  is  the  same  quality 
of  imagination,  working  not  in  a  region  of  fantasy, 
but  in  that  of  moral  perversion  and  degeneration  with 
a  psychologic  insight  which  is  more  searching  and 
striking  in  its  working  out  than  that  which  Stevenson 


xxxviii  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

brought  to  bear  on  the  same  problem  in  Dr.  Jekyll  and 
Mr.  Hyde.  In  this  original  and  impressive  tale,  he 
was  on  Hawthorne’s  ground,  but  the  methods  of  the 
two  great  romancers  had  almost  nothing  in  common. 
These  stories  are  often  classed  with  The  Raven  and 
The  Bells  ;  they  belong  rather,  in  the  perfection  of 
their  form  and  the  depth  of  their  conception,  with  j 
Israfel  and  The  City  in  the  Sea.  ' 

During  the  residence  in  Philadelphia  appeared  the  ! 
first  of  those  stories  of  ratiocination  which  exhibit  1 
another  side  of  his  mind  and  which  have  been  the  ' 
prolific  ancestors  of  a  host  of  more  or  less  successful 
ventures  in  the  field  of  detective  story-writing.  The 
Murders  of  the  Rue  Morgue  belongs  in  the  same  group 
with  The  Mystery  of  Marie  Roget,  The  Purloined  Letter, 
and  The  Gold  Bug;  tales  which  are  on  a  much  lower  level 
of  imagination  than  Ligeia  and  its  kindred  pieces,  and 
the  interest  of  which  depends  rather  on  pure  inven¬ 
tiveness  than  on  creative  power.  They  appeal  to 
curiosity  and  are  skilful  rather  than  original.  The 
Descent  into  the  Maelstrom,  which  belongs  to  this 
period,  is  a  masterpiece  of  swift,  impressive,  and  ab¬ 
sorbing  narrative ;  while  The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death 
is  a  study  in  color  which  has  an_  intensity  out  of  all 
proportion  to  its  incidents.  In  all  these  stories,  Poe 
was  demonstrating  the  soundness  of  the  principle  that 
a  writer  ‘‘having  conceived,  with  deliberate  care,  a 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


xxxix 


certain  unique  or  single  effect  to  be  wrought  out  .  .  . 
combines  such  events  as  may  best  aid  him  in  establish¬ 
ing  this  preconceived  effect.  ...  In  the  whole  com¬ 
position  there  should  be  no  word  written,  of  which 
the  tendency,  direct  or  indirect,  is  not  to  the  one 
preestablished  design.” 

Poe  was  now  the  editor  of  Oraham^s  Magazine, 
which  had  made  a  notable  success  within  a  very  short 
time,  and  was  living  in  more  comfort  and  apparent 
security  than  at  any  earlier  period,  when  the  great 
sorrow  of  his  life  suddenly  overtook  him.  His  deli¬ 
cate  young  wife,  still  hardly  more  than  a  girl,  ruptured 
a  blood-vessel  while  singing,  hung  for  a  long  time  be¬ 
tween  life  and  death,  and  was  never  again  well.  Poe’s 
devotion  had  a  passionate  intensity ;  he  hung  over 
the  sick-bed  in  an  agony  of  apprehension,  and  was 
stretched  for  long  years  on  the  rack  of  anxiety  and 
uncertainty.  Under  this  terrible  strain  his  character 
yielded  at  its  weakest  point. 

Six  years  ago  [he  wrote  at  a  later  period],  a  wife,  whom  I 
loved  as  no  man  ever  loved  before,  ruptured  a  blood-vessel  in 
singing.  Her  life  was  despaired  of.  I  took  leave  of  her  for¬ 
ever,  and  underwent  all  the  agonies  of  her  death.  She  recov¬ 
ered  partially,  and  I  again  hoped.  At  the  end  of  the  year  the 
vessel  broke  again.  I  went  through  precisely  the  same  scene. 
.  .  .  Then  again,  again,  and  even  once  again,  at  varying  in¬ 
tervals.  Each  time  I  felt  all  the  agonies  of  her  death  ;  and  at 
each  accession  of  the  disorder  I  loved  her  more  dearly  and 


xl 


SDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


clung  to  her  life  with  more  desperate  pertinacity.  Biit  I  am  i 
constitutionally  sensitive  —  nervous  in  a  very  unusual  degree. 

I  became  insane,  with  long  intervals  of  horrible  sanity.  Dur¬ 
ing  these  fits  of  absolute  unconsciousness  I  drank  —  God  only 
knows  how  often  or  how  much.  As  a  matter  of  course,  my 
enemies  referred  the  insanity  to  the  drink,  rather  than  the  I 
drink  to  the  insanity.  ■ 

There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  the  substantial  ac-  ! 
curacy  of  this  statement,  and  from  this  time  Poe’s 
powers  of  concentration  grew  weaker.  He  who  would 
venture  to  pronounce  judgment  on  such  a  career  as 
Poe’s  in  the  sense  of  determining  the  moral  responsi-  h 
bility  of  the  victim,  and  striking  the  balance  between 
the  force  of  temptation  in  inheritance,  temperament, 
physique  and  conditions,  and  the  power  of  resistance, 
must  be  either  supremely  rash  or  blindly  ignorant; 
no  such  judgment  is  possible  or  necessary.  It  is 
equally  futile  to  attempt  to  minimize  the  weight  of 
the  facts,  or  to  deny  their  reaction  on  his  productive 
power.  Absolute  veracity  is  a  fundamental  duty  in 
all  portraitures  or  estimates  of  men  of  genius;  for 
the  law  under  which  all  men  live  nowhere  works  its  ' 
will  more  unmistakably  than  in  the  case  of  men  of 
superior  quality  of  mind,  ^^e  relation  of  character 
to  genius  is  not  solely  a  matter  of  morals ;  it  is  quite 
as  obviously  a  matter  of  psychology .'7  To  affirm  that 
conduct  and  creativeness  have  no~vital  connection 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


xl\ 


with  one  another,  is  to  confuse  the  facts  of  psy¬ 
chology  as  well  as  to  conceal  those  of  moral  history. 
Artistic  power  is  often  strikingly  put  forth  without 
regard  to  sanity  of  life ;  but  genius  is  never  com¬ 
pletely  expressed  and  its  largest  results  harvested 
save  by  those  who  conform  to  the  conditions  of  pro¬ 
ductiveness.  In  the  last  analysis,  as  Goethe  saw  so 
clearly,  the  artist  is  conditioned  on  the  man  ;  and  the 
source  of  the  limitations  of  a  man’s  art  will  be  found, 
as  a  rule,  in  his  character  and  life.  Entire  frank¬ 
ness,  therefore,  is  the  prime  duty  of  the  biographer 
and  critic ;  the  facts  must  have  their  full  weight.  But 
only  the  bigot  will  attempt  to  adjust  the  moral  bal¬ 
ance  and  determine  the  moral  responsibility. 

The  editorship  of  Graham’s  was  soon  lost,  with  the 
usual  accompaniment  of  contradictory  statements  re¬ 
garding  the  cause.  In  1844,  with  very  few  dollars  in 
hand,  Poe  was  venturing  “  a  hazard  of  new  fortunes  ” 
in  New  York.  The  conditions  would  have  disheartened 
a  man  less  hopeful  and  daring.  It  was  almost  impos¬ 
sible  to  live  by  writing,  and  Poe  seemed  incapable  of 
keeping  editorial  positions  after  he  secured  them.  He 
had  done  a  vast  amount  of  work  and  had  been  paid  a 
starving  wage ;  he  had  shown  himself  to  be  not  only  a 
man  of  letters  in  the  strictest  sense  of  the  word,  but  he 
had  shown  himself  to  be  also  a  shrewd  and  success¬ 
ful  editor.  He  had  not  been  the  victim  of  conditions 


xlii 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


] 

I 


I 


wholly  adverse,  for  he  had  had  important  editorial 
opportunities  and  had  lost  them.  There  is  reason  to 
believe  that  a  certain  amount  of  editorial  work  was 
not  distasteful  to  him.  He  failed,  in  other  words,  to 
make  a  sound  working  basis  for  his  life  for  reasons 
which  must  be  sought  not  in  his  conditions,  but  in  his 
character. 

Early  in  1845,  The  Raven  was  published ;  Ulalume 
and  The  Bells  appeared  later.  With  these  poems  the 
measure  of  Poe’s  poetic  expression  was  complete ;  and 
no  American  poems  are  so  widely  known.  *The  Raven 
is  probably  known  by  more  people  than  any  other 
piece  of  verse  yet  written  on  this  continent.  In 
these  poems  Poe’s  technical  skill  is  almost  unsur¬ 
passed;  he  seems  to  have  a  magical  command  of 
sound ;  he  knows  by  instinct  and  uses  by  intelligence 
the  subtle  resources  of  melody  that  lie  in  the  open 
vowels ;  he  produces  the  most  striking  effects  by  his 
masterly  use  of  refrain  and  repetend.  But  the  quality 
of  Poe’s  genius  must  be  sought  elsewhere ;  for  there 
is  a  note  of  artificiality  in  each  of  these  pieces  of 
verse ;  they  are  marvellous  pieces  of  construction,  and 
melody  seems  to  issue  from  the  heart  of  them;  but 
they  have  no  spiritual  root,  and  no  deep  artistic 
necessity  fashioned  them. 

In  Hew  York  Poe  found  large  opportunities  for 
work,  but  with  the  exception  of  The  Bells  he  wrote 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


xliii 


little  which  added  to  his  reputation  or  to  American 
literature.  He  attacked  Longfellow  as  a  plagiarist 
and  failed  to  support  the  accusation;  he  reprinted, 
with  changes  more  or  less  important,  many  of  his 
earlier  pieces ;  he  was  guilty  in  several  instances  of 
that  exaggeration  of  .the  importance  of  insignificant 
contemporary  writers  which  he  had  courageously  con¬ 
demned  in  others,  and  he  was  steadily  sinking  deeper 
into  the  morass  which  was  finally  to  engulf  him.  His 
collected  poems  were  published  in  Hew  York  under 
the  title.  The  Raven  and  Other  Poems.  The  revisions 
which  appear  in  this  volume  are  important,  because 
they  form  the  definitive  text  of  his  work  in  verse. 
In  the  preface 'there  is  a  very  frank  confession  of  the 
obvious  lim  itations  of  his  poetic  achievement  in  com¬ 
parison  with  his  genius  :  “  Events  not  to  be  controlled 
have  prevented  me  from  making  at  any  time  any  seri¬ 
ous  effort  in  what,  under  happier  circumstances,  would 
have  been  the  field  of  my.  choice.  With  me  poetry 
has  been  not  a  purpose,  but  a, passion;  and  the  pas¬ 
sions  should  be  held  in  reverence  ;  they  must  not  — 
they  cannot  at  will  —  be  excited,  with  an  eye  to  the 
paltry  compensations,  or  the  more  paltry  commenda¬ 
tions,  of  mankind.’’  The  note  of  sincerity  is  clear  in 
the  first  statement ;  the  note  of  insincerity,  so  often 
heard  in  Poe,  is  equally  clear  in  the  closing  statements. 

The  cottage  at  Fordham  on  the  outskirts  of  Hew 


xliv 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


York  was  overshadowed  by  the  approaching  death  of 
Virginia  and  by  the  declining  health  of  Poe  himself ; 
the  ravages  of  care,  the  strain  of  overwork,  and  the 
disintegrating  force  of  liquor  and  drugs,  were  rapidly 
destroying  his  nervous  system.  The  young  wife,  upon 
whom  he  lavished  the  purest  and  noblest  passion  of 
his  life,  died  in  January,  1847 ;  Poe  went  through  a 
long  illness  and  was  tenderly  cared  for  by  friends. 
He  recovered,  wrote  Eureka;  a  Prose  Poem,  in  which 
is  revealed  the  marvellous  inventiveness  of  his  mind, 
and  his  singular  lack  of  real  philosophical  insight  and 
grasp  of  principles;  published  The  Bells;  delivered 
an  occasional  lecture ;  completed  The  Domain  of  Arn<~ 
helm,  one  of  his  most  characteristic  tales  of  fantasy, 
and  passed  through  at  least  one  personal  experience 
which  made  clear  the  inroads  of  weakness  upon  his 
will  and  intelligence.  As  the  end  approached  a  deep  de¬ 
spondency  settled  upon  him.  In  June,  1849,  he  started 
on  a  journey  to  Eichmond.  In  Philadelphia  he  had 
a  severe  attack  of  delirium  tremens,  from  which  he 
recovered  sufficiently  to  complete  his  journey  and  to 
find  pleasure  during  a  three  months’  stay  in  the  hos¬ 
pitable  capital  of  Virginia  among  friends,  who  were 
glad  to  show  him  every  honor.  Late  in  September  he 
started  to  return  to  New  York.  An  uncertainty  which 
is  not  likely  to  be  dispelled  rests  on  the  history  of 
the  next  few  days ;  the  few  and  tragic  facts  are  that 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


xlv 


on  Wednesday  afternoon  of  the  following  week,  he 
was  recognized  in  a  drinking-place  in  Baltimore,  by  a 
printer  who  reported  the  fact  to  Dr.  Snodgrass.  The 
latter  promptly  had  Poe  taken  to  a  hospital,  where  he 
was  received  in  an  unconscious  condition,  and  there 
on  the  following  Sunday  he  died.  “Lord  help  my 
poor  soul,”  was  his  last  appeal  to  the  mercy  of  God 
and  the  charity  of  men. 

Poe  made  his  most  definite  impression  upon  his  own 
contemporaries  by  his  criticism ;  there  is  evidence  that 
he  attached  the  greater  importance  to  his  prose  tales ; 
but  the  reading  world,  which  often  reveals  a  very  true 
instinct  in  these  matters,  insists  upon  the  higher  value 
and  significance  of  his  poetry.  And  the  world  is  right; 
for  Poe’s  genius  is  most  completely  expressed  in  his 
verse.  His  criticism  is  memorable  chiefly  for  its 
historical  significance ;  it  has  no  place  with  the  endur¬ 
ing  work  in  this  field ;  its  author  has  no  standing  with 
Sainte  Beuve,  Coleridge,  and  Arnold.  His  prose  tales 
have  intense  individuality  of  conception  and  workman¬ 
ship,  and  are  among  the  most  distinctive  and  original 
work  yet  done  in  America.  It  is  by  his  poetry,  how¬ 
ever,  that  Poe  must  stand  or  fall;  for  in  his  poetry, 
his  power  and  his  limitation  are  most  clearly  revealed. 
Although  not  in  any  sense  a  deep  and  consistent 
thinker,  Poe  made  his  art  a  matter  of  constant  medi¬ 
tation,  and,  with  the  aid  of  Coleridge,  had  evolved  a 


xlvi 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


theory  both  of  verse  and  of  short-story  writing  which  1 
throws  clear  light  on  his  aims  and  methods.  The 
Rationale  of  Yerse  and  The  Poetic  Principle  are  lucid 
and  definite  in  the  statement  of  that  theory.  Truth, 
he  held,  appealed  and  gave  expression  to  the  intellect, 
passion  stirred  the  heart,  but  beauty  was  the  natural 
speech  of  the  soul ;  beauty  was,  therefore,  the  expres¬ 
sion  of  the  deepest  part  of  man’s  nature,  the  immor¬ 
tal  part ;  its  presence  liberated  the  noblest  forces  in 
him,  excited  the  highest  emotions  and  supplied  the 
deepest  satisfactions.  Under  the  pressure  of  the  need 
of  his  own  soul  and  the  recognition  of  the  beautiful 
in  the  world  about  him  man  is  impelled  to  create,  under 
the  forms  of  art,  a  beauty  of  his  own  in  which  the  real 
and  the  imaginary  are  harmoniously  blended.  From 
this  creative  activity,  truth  and  passion  are  not  to  be 
excluded ;  but  they  are  to  be  kept  in  strict  subordina¬ 
tion  to  the  main  purpose  of  creating  a  definite  and 
overpowering  impression  of  beauty.  The  soul  is  to  be 
nourished  and  enriched  not  by  ethical  impulse,  or  by 
the  vision  of  larger  knowledge,  but  by  the  dilation  of 
the  imagination.  It  must  be  added  that  beauty,  in 
Poe’s  view,  was  a  witness  to  the  presence  of  the  divine 
in  the  world,  and  had,  therefore,  a  spiritual  signifi¬ 
cance  and  quality.  Poetry  he  defined  as  “  the  rhyth¬ 
mical  creation  of  beauty” ;  he  insisted  upon  brevity  as 
essential  to  lyrical  perfection,  and  went  so  far  as  to 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


xlvii 


affirm  that  long  poem  does  not  exist”;  he  did, not 
exclude  ethical  or  allegorical  conceptions,  as  his 
ffnuLpfjul.  ^m^'TTieConqueror  TFdrwTshow,  but  "he 

hJd  that  the  poet  should  aim  td'^duce  a  single  and  | 
perfectly  definite  effect,  and  that  any  secondary 
meaning  should  arise  inevitably  out  of  a  clear  impres¬ 
sion  of  a  beautiful  creation  ;  and  he  insisted  that  every 
piece  of  verse  ought  to  have  some  marked  quality  of  \ 
metre  or  rhythm. 

If  these  principles  or  maxims  are  applied  to  Poe’s 
verse,  it  will  be  found  that  it  stands  the  test.  No 
artist  has  made  his  work  more  consistently  embody 
and  express  his  conception  of  the  aims  and  methods 
of  his  art.  Unlike  Wordsworth  and  Whitman,  Poe 
gains  by  the  approach  of  his  poetry  to  his  philosophy. 

So  far  as  his  philosophy  of  art  was  concerned,  there 
was  nothing  original  in  it;  it  was,  however,  exactly 
suited  to  his  temperament  and  his  genius.  So  far 
as  his  maxims  of  construction  are  concerned,  they 
are  the  laws  of  his  own  nature  rather  than  of  art. 
They  so  nicely  bring  out  the  structure  of  his  own 
work  that  the  suspicion  of  the  ex  post  facto  origin 
cannot  be  avoided. 

Within  the  limits  which  Poe  set  to  the  poetic  art, 
there  was  ample  room  for  the  deepest  and  noblest 
activity  of  the  poetic  impulse;  for  Homer,  Virgil, 
Shakespeare,  Goethe,  and  Tennyson.  But  this  field 


1 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

was  greatly  narrowed  by  his  maxims  for  verse  pro¬ 
duction.  In  this  narrower  field  of  artistic  vision  and 
power  he  made  his  great  and  lasting  success.  In 
at  least  half  a  dozen  poems  he  has  shown  a  skill 
akin  to  magic  in  producing  a  single  striking  and 
unusual  effect,  by  concentration  of  interest,  subordi¬ 
nation  of  secondary  meaning,  compression  of  thought 
within  a  narrow  compass,  and  the  identification  of  the 
poem  with  a  distinctive  metrical  effect.  Within  these 
narrow  limits,  imposed  by  his  own  genius,  confirmed, 
by  his  character,  and,  later,  rationalized  into  a  philoso¬ 
phy?  Poe  was  a  master.  He  fashioned,  under  these 
rules,  a  few  poems  which  are  finalities,  and  a  finality 
marks  the  end  of  the  path.  Poe  has  gone  as  far  as 
man  can  go  in  his  own  field,  and  that  is  saying  that 
he  is  a  genuine  creative  artistij^^one  whose  work  betrays 
not  only  perfection  of  form  but  individuality  of  touch. 
It  is  from  this  point  of  view  that  Poe  has  compelled 
the  admiration  of  foreign  students  of  literature,  and 
has  been  given,  sometimes  the  first  place,  always  one 
of  the  first  places,  in  our  literature. 

When  his  work  is  brought  to  the  test  of  the  supreme 
poetic  work  of  the  race,  it  is  seen,  however,  that  it  has 
very  marked  limitations ;  it  remains  perfect  of  its  kind 
and  unique  in  its  quality,  but  it  lacks  mass,  reality, 
passion,  and  spirituality.  H  is  devoiti  of  ■  brcrfndf^"tha 
great  human  quality  which,  with  one  or  two  excep- 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


X 


tions,  flows  through  the  greatest  imaginative  work ; 
it  is  not  representative  on  a  large  scale  of  human  life 
and  interpretative  of  human  experience;  there  is  no 
I  real  grasp  of  character  in  it ;  its  formative  ideas  are 
few  and  lacking  in  depth.  Poe  is  the  most  individual 
of  our  poets  and  the  most  magical ;  but  he  lacks  the 
veracity,  insight,  range,  and  fertility  of  the  great 
poet. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER°* 
o  Y  A  "F  ^  ^  H. 

Son  coeur  est  mi  luth  suspendu ; 

Sit6t  qu’on  le  touche  il  rfeonne. 

Beranger. 

O  hJ  Y  t  E  f  cL“t. 

During  tliG  whole  of  a  dull,  dark,  and  soundless 

day  in  the  autumn  of  the  year,  when  the  clouds  hung 
oppressively  low  in  the  heavens,  I  had  been  passing 
alone,  on  horseback,  through  a  singularly  dreary  tract 
of  country ;  and  at  length  found  myself,  as  the  shades 
of  the  evening  drew  on,  within  view  of  the  melancholy 
House  of  Usher.  I  know  not  how  it  was  —  but,  with 
the  first  glimpse  of  the  building,  a  sense  of  insuffer¬ 
able  gloom  pervaded  my  spirit.  I  say  insufferable; 
for  the  feeling  was  unrelieved  by  any  of  that  half- 
pleasurable,  because  poetic,  sentiment  with  which  the 
mind  usually  receives  even  the  sternest  natural  images 
of  the  desolate  or  terrible.  I  looked  upon  the  scene 
before  me — upon  the  mere  house,  and  the  simple 
landscape  features  of  the  domain,  upon  the  bleak 


B 


*  By  permission  of  H.  S.  Stone  &  Co. 
1 


V 


0 


I 


i 


T  A  '  I 

H 

2  THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  ^ 

y  walls,  upon  the  vacant  j^eiUM^ludows,  upon  a  few  I 
j  rankjedg^  and  upon  a  few  white  trunks  of  decayed 
Lfrees  —  with  an  utter  depressjpn  of  soul  which  I  can 
compare  to  no  earthly  sensation  more  properly  than 
to  the  after-dream  «f  the  reveller  upon  opium :  the  : 
bitter  lapse  into  everyday  life,  the  hideous  dropping  I 
off  of  the  veil.  There  was  an  iciness,  a  sinking,  a 
smkenmg  of  the  heart,  an  unredeemed  dreariness  of 
thought  which  no  goading  of  the  imagination  could 
torture  into  aught  of  the  sublime.  What  was  it  — 

I  paused  to  think  — what  was  it  that  so  unnerved 
me  in  the  contemplation  of  the  House  of  Usher  ?  It 
was  a  mystery  all  insoluble ;  nor  could  I  grapple  with  : 
the  shadowy  fancies  that  crowded  upon  me  as  I  pon-  i 
dered.  I  was  forced  to  fall  back  upon  the  unsatis-  ; 
factory  conclusion,  that  while,  beyond  doubt,  there  are  i 
combinations  of  very  simple  natural  objects  which  have  > 
the  power  of  thus  affecting  us,  still  the  analysis  of  this  i 
power  lies  among  consideratio;is  beyond  our  depth.  It  | 
was  possible,  I  reflected,  that  a  mere  different  arrange-  I 
ment  of  the  particulars  of  the  scene,  of  the  details  of  J 
the  picture,  would  be  siifiieient  to  modify,  or  perhaps  | 
to  annihilate,  its  capacity  for  sorrowful  impression-  ’ 
and  acting  upon  this  idea,  I  reined  my  horse  to  the  1 

precipitous  brink  of  a  black  and  lurid  tarn  that  lay  j 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  '  3 


in  unruffled  lustre  by  the  dweUing,  and  gazed  down 

—  but  with  a  shudder  even  more  thrilling  than  be¬ 
fore —  upon  the  remodelled  and  inverted  images  of 
the  gray  sedge,  and  the  ghastly  tree-stems,  and  the 
vacant  and  eye-like  windows. 

Nevertheless,  in  this  mansion  of  gloom  I  now  pro¬ 
posed  to  myself  a  sojourn  of  some  weeks.  Its  pro¬ 
prietor,  Roderick  Usher,  had  been  one  of  my  boon 
companions  in  boyhood ;  but  many  years  had  elapsed 
since  our  last  meeting.  A  letter,  however,  had  lately 
reached  me  in  a  distant  part  of  the  country  —  a  letter 
from  him  —  which  in  its  wildly  importunate  nature 
had  admitted  of  no  other  than  a  personal  reply.  The 
MS.  gave  evidence  of  nervous  agitation.  The  writer 
spoke  of  acute  bodily  illness,  of  a  mental  disorder 
which  oppressed  him,  and  of  an  earnest  desire  to  see 
me,  as  his  best  and  indeed  his  only  personal  friend, 
with  a  view  of  attempting,  by  the  cheerfulness  of  my 
society,  some  alleviation  of  his  malady.  It  was  the 
manner  in  which  all  this,  and  much  more,  was  said 

—  it  was  the  apparent  heart  that  went  with  his  re¬ 
quest —  which  allowed  me  no  room  for  hesitation; 
and  I  accordingly  obeyed  forthwith  what  I  still  con¬ 
sidered  a  very  singular  summons. 

Although  as  boys  we  had  been  even  intimate  as- 


4 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 


sociates,  yet  I  really  knew  little  of  my  friend.  His 
reserve  had  been  always  excessive  and  habitual.  I 
was  aware,  however,  that  his  very  ancient  family  had 
been  noted,  time  out  of  mind,  for  a  peculiar  sensibil¬ 
ity  of  temperament,  displaying  itself,  through  long 
ages,  in  many  works  of  exalted  art,  and  manifested 
of  late  in  repeated  deeds  of  munificent  yet  unobtru¬ 
sive  charity,  as  well  as  in  a  passionate  devotion  to 
the  intricacies,  perhaps  even  more  than  to  the  or¬ 
thodox  and  easily  recognizable  beauties,  of  musical 
science.  I  had  learned,  too,  the  very  remarkable  fact 
that  the  stem  of  the  Usher  race,  all  time-honored  as 
it  was,  had  put  forth  at  no  period  any  enduring 
branch ;  in  other  words,  that  the  entire  family  lay  in 
the  direct  line  of  descent,  and  had  always,  with  very 
trifling  and  very  temporary  variation,  so  lain.  It  was 
this  deficiency,  I  considered,  while  running  over  in 
thought  the  perfect  keeping  of  the  character  of  the 
premises  with  the  accredited  character  of  the  peo¬ 
ple,  and  while  speculating  upon  the  possible  influence 
which  the  one,  in  the  long  lapse  of  centuries,  might 
have  exercised  upon  the  other  —  it  was  this  deficiency, 
perhaps,  of  collateral  issue,  and  the  consequent  unde¬ 
viating  transmission  from  sire  to  son  of  the  patrimony 
with  the  name,  which  had,  at  length,  so  identified  the 


i 

I 


1 

i 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 


5 


t  two  as  to  merge  the  original  title  of  the  estate  in  the 
quaint  and  equivocal  appellation  of  the  “  House  of 
Usher —  an  appellation  which  seemed  to  include,  in 
the  minds  of  the  peasantry  who  used  it,  both  the 
I  family  and  the  family  mansion. 

I  have  said  that  the  sole  effect  of  my  somewhat 
■  childish  experiment,  that  of  looking  down  within  the 
t  tarn,  had  been  to  deepen  the  first  singular  impression. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  consciousness  of  the 

I  rapid  increase  of  my  superstition  —  for  why  should 

I I  not  so  term  it  ?  —  served  mainly  to  accelerate  the 
1  increase  itself.  Such,  I  have  long  known,  is  the 
]  paradoxical  law  of  all  sentiments  having  terror  as 
:  a  basis.  And  it  might  have  been  for  this  reason 

only,  that,  when  I  again  uplifted  my  eyes  to  the 
house  itself,  from  its  image  in  the  pool,  there  grew 
in  my  mind  a  strange  fancy  —  a  fancy  so  ridiculous, 
indeed,  that  I  but  mention  it  to  show  the  vivid  force 
of  the  sensations  which  oppressed  me.  I  had  so 
worked  upon  my  imagination  as  really  to  believe  that 
about  the  whole  mansion  and  domain  there  hung  an 
atmosphere  peculiar  to  themselves  and  their  immedi¬ 
ate  vicinity :  an  atmosphere  which  had  no  affinity 
with  the  air  of  heaven,  but  which  had  reeked  up 
from  the  decayed  trees,  and  the  gray  wall,  and  the 


b  THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER. 

silent  tarn :  a  pestilent  and  mystic  vapor^  dull,  slug¬ 
gish,  faintly  discernible,  and  leaden-hued. 

Shaking  off  from  my  spirit  what  must  have  been  a 
dream,  I  scanned  more  narrowly  the  real  aspect  of  the 
building.  Its  principal -feature  seemed  to  be  that  of 
an  excessive  antiquity.  The  discoloration  of  ages  had 
been  great.  Minute  fungi  overspread  the  whole  ex¬ 
terior,  hanging  in  a  fine  tangled  web-work  from  the 
eaves.  Yet  all  this  was  apart  from  any  extraordinary 
dilapidation.  No  portion  of  the  masonry  had  fallen; 
and  there  appeared  to  be  a  wild  inconsistency  between 
its  still  perfect  adaptation  of  parts  and  the  crumbling 
condition  of  the  individual  stones.  In  this  there  was 
much  that  reminded  me  of  the  specious  totality  of  old 
wood-work  which  has  rotted  for  long  years  in  some 
neglected  vault,  with  no  disturbance  from  the  breath 
of  the  external  air.  Beyond  this  indication  of  exten¬ 
sive  decay,  however,  the  fabric  gave  little  token  of 
instability.  Perhaps  the  eye  of  a  scrutinizing  ob¬ 
server  might  have  discovered  a  barely  perceptible 
fissure,  which,  extending  from  the  roof  of  the  build- 
ing  in  front,  made  its  way  down  the  wall  in  a  zigzag 
direction,  until  it  became  lost  in  the  sullen  waters  of 
the  tarn. 

N oticing  these  things,  I  xode  over  a  short  causeway 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 


7 


to  the  house.  A  servant  in  waiting  took  my  horse, 
and  I  entered  the  Gothic  archway  of  the  hall.  A 
valet,  of  stealthy  step,  thence  conducted  me,  in  si¬ 
lence,  through  many  dark  and  intricate  passages  in 
my  progress  to  the  studio  of  his  master.  Much  that 
I  encountered  on  the  way  contributed,  I  know  not 
how,  to  heighten  the  vague  sentiments  of  which  I 
have  already  spoken.  While  the  objects  around  me 
—  while  the  carvings  of  the  ceilings,  the  sombre  tap¬ 
estries  of  the  walls,  the  ebon  blackness  of  the  floors, 
and  the  phantasmagoric  armorial  trophies  which  rat¬ 
tled  as  I  strode,  were  but  matters  to  which,  or  to  such 
as  which,  I  had  been  accustomed  from  my  infancy  — 
while  I  hesitated  not  to  acknowledge  how  familiar 
was  all  this  —  I  still  wondered  to  find  how  unfamiliar 
were  the  fancies  which  ordinary  images  were  stirring 
up."  On  one  of  the  staircases,  I  met  the  physician 
of  the  family.  His  countenance,  I  thought,  wore  a 
mingled  expression  of  low  cunning  and  perplexity. 
He  accosted  me  with  trepidation  and  passed  on.  The 
valet  now  threw  open  a  door  and  ushered  me  into  the 
presence  of  his  master. 

The  room  in  which  I  found  myself  was  very  large 
and  lofty.  The  windows  were  long,  narrow,  and 
pointed,  and  at  so  vast  a  distance  from  the  black 


8  THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 

oaken  floor  as  to  be  altogether  inaccessible  from 
within.  Feeble  gleams  of  encrimsoned  light  made 
their  way  through  the  trellised  panes,  and  served  to 
render  sufficiently  distinct  the  more  prominent  objects 
around;  the  eye,  however,  struggled  in  vain  to  reach 
the  remoter  angles  of  the  chamber,  or  the  recesses  of 
the  vaulted  and  fretted  ceiling.  Dark  draperies  hung 
upon  the  walls.  The  general  furniture  was  profuse, 
comfortless,  antique,  and  tattered.  Many  books  and 
musical  instruments  lay  scattered  about,  but  failed  to 
give  any  vitality  to  the  scene.  I  felt  that  I  breathed 
an  atmosphere  of  sorrow.  An  air  of  stern,  deep,  and 
irredeemable  gloom  hung  over  and  pervaded  all. 

Upon  my  entrance.  Usher  arose  from  a  sofa  on 
which  he  had  been  lying  at  full  length,  and  greeted 
me  with  a  vivacious  warmth  which  had  much  in  it, 
I  at  first  thought,  of  an  overdone  cordiality  —  of  the 
constrained  effort  of  the  ennuy4  man  of  the  world. 
A  glance,  however,  at  his  countenance  convinced  me 
of  his  perfect  sincerity.  We  sat  down ;  and  for  some 
moments,  while  he  spoke  not,  I  gazed  upon  him  with 
a  feeling  half  of  pity,  half  of  awe.  Surely  man  had 
never  before  so  terribly  altered,  in  so  brief  a  period, 
as  had  Eoderick  Usher!  It  was  with  difficulty  that 
I  could  bring  myself  to  admit  the  identity  of  the  wan 


'  THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 


9 


Deing  before  me  with  the  companion  of  my  early  boy¬ 
hood.  Yet  the  character  of  his  face  had  been  at  all 
times  remarkable.  A  cadaverousness  of  complexion; 
an  eye  large,  liquid,  and  luminous  beyond  comparison; 
lips  somewhat  thin  and  very  pallid,  but  of  a  surpass¬ 
ingly  beautiful  curve;  a  nose  of  a  delicate  Hebrew 
model,  but  with  a  breadth  of  nostril  unusual  in  simi¬ 
lar  formations ;  a  finely  moulded'  chin,  speaking,  in 
its  want  of  prominence,  of  a  want  of  moral  energy  • 
hair  of  a  more  than  web-like  softness  and  tenuity; 
these  features,  with  an  inordinate  expansion  above 
the  regions  of  the  temple,  made  up  altogether  a  coun¬ 
tenance  not  easily  to  be  forgotten.  And  now  in  the 
mere  exaggeration  of  the  prevailing  character  of  these 
features,  and  of  the  expression  they  were  wont  to  con¬ 
vey,  lay  so  much  of  change  that  I  doubted  to  whom 
I  spoke.  The  now  ghastly  pallor  of  the  skin,  and  the 
now  miraculous  lustre  of  the  eye,  above  all  things 
startled  and  even  awed  me.  The  silken  hair,  too, 
had  been  suffered  to  grow  all  unheeded,  and  as,  in 
its  wild  gossamer  texture,  it  floated  rather  than  fell 
about  the  face,  I  could  not,  even  with  effort,  connect  its 
arabesque  expression  with  any  idea  of  simple  humanity. 

In  the  manner  of  my  friend  I  was  at  once  struck 
with  an  incoherence,  an  inconsistency;  and  I  soon 


V’  V 


■i 

$ 


10  THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  ' 

found  this  to  arise  from  a  series  of  feeble  and  futile  i 
struggles  to  overcome  an  habitual  trepidancy,  an  ex-  ^ 
cessive  nervous  agitation.  For  something  of  this  ; 
nature  I  had  indeed  been  prepared,  no  less  by  his  i 
letter  than  by  reminiscences  of  certain  boyish  traits,  j 
and  by  conclusions  deduced  from  his  peculiar  physi¬ 
cal  conformation  and  temperament.  His  action  was 
alternately  vivacious  and  sullen.  His  voice  varied 
rapidly  from  a  tremulous  indecision  (when  the  animal 
spirits  seemed  utterly  in  abeyance)  to  that  species  of  : 
energetic  concision  — that  abrupt,  weighty,  unhurried,  j 
and  hollow-sounding  enunciation  —  that  leaden,  self- 
balanced  and  perfectly  modulated  guttural  utterance  ji 
—  which  may  be  observed  in  the  lost  drunkard,  or  the 
irreclaimable  eater  of  opium,  during  the  periods  of  his  ' 
most  intense  excitement.  j 

It  was  thus  that  he  spoke  of  the  object  of  my  visit,  •! 

of  his  earnest  desire  to  see  me,  and  of  ^lie  solace  he  v| 

expected  me  to  afford  him.  He  entered,  at  some  v 
length,  into  what  he  conceived  to  be  the  nature  of  his 
malady.  It  was,  he  said,  a  constitutional  and  a  family  I 
evil,  and  one  for  which  he  despaired  to  find  a  remedy 

a  mere  nervous  affection,  he  immediately  added, 
which  would  undoubtedly  soon  pass  off.  It  displayed  1 
itself  in  a  host  pf  unnatural  sensations.  Some  of  1' 

I 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  11 

these,  as  he  detailed  them,  interested  and  bewildered 
me ;  although,  perhaps,  the  terms  and  the  general 
manner  of  the  narration  had  their  weight.  He  suf¬ 
fered  much  from  a  morbid  acuteness  of  the  senses; 
I  the  most  insipid  food  was  alone  endurable ;  he  could 
wear  only  garments  of  certain  texture;  the  odors  of 
all  flowers  were  oppressive;  his  eyes  were  tortured 
by  even  a  faint  light;  and  there  were  but  peculiar 
sounds,  and  these  from  stringed  instruments,  which 
did  not  inspire  him  with  horror. 

To  an  anomalous  species  of  terror  I  found  him  a 
Ibounden  slave:  ^‘1  shall  perish,’^  said  he,  “I  must 
1  perish  in  this  deplorable  folly.  Thus,  thus,  and  not 
otherwise,  shall  I  be  lost.  I  dread  the  events  of  the 
1  future,  not  in  themselves,  but  in  their  results.  I 
shudder  at  the  thought  of  any,  even  the  most  trivial, 
incident,  which  may  operate  upon  this  intolerable 
agitation  of  soul.  I  have,  indeed,  no  abhorrence  of 
danger,’  except  in  its  absolute  effect  —  in  terror.  In 
this  unnerved  —  in  this  pitiable  condition,  I  feel  that 
the  period  will  sooner  or  later  arrive  when  I  must 
abandon  life  and  reason  together,  in  some  struggle 
with  the  grim  phantasm,  Fear.^^ 

I  learned  moreover  at  intervals,  and  through  broken 
and  equivocal  hints,  another  singular  feature  of  his 


12  THE  FALL  OF^  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  | 

mental  condition.  He  was  enchained  by  certain  super* 
stitious  impressions  in  regard  to  the  dwelling  which  he  : 
tenanted,  and  whence,  for  many  years,  he  had  never  i 
ventured  forth  —  in  regard  >to  an  influence  whose  sup-  ; 
posititious  force  was  conveyed  in  terms  too  shadowy  ' 
here  to  be  restated  —  an  influence  which  some  pecu-  i 
liarities  in  the  mere  form  and  substance  of  his  family 
mansion,  had,  by  dint  of  long  sufferance,  he  said,  ob-  . 
tained  over  his  spirit  —  an  effect  which  the  physique 
of  the  gray  walls  and  turrets,  and  of  the  dim  tarn  ' 
into  which  they  all  looked  down,  had,  at  length, 
brought  about  upon  the  morale  of  his  existence. 

He  admitted,  however,  although  with  hesitation,  that 
much  of  the  peculiar  gloom  which  thus  afflicted  him  ' 
could  be  traced  to  a  more  natural  and  far  more  pal-  ; 
pable  origin  —  to  the  severe  and  long-continued  illness,  ■ 
indeed  to  the  evidently  approaching  dissolution,  of  a 
tenderly  beloved  sister  —  his  sole  companion  for  long 
years,  his  last  and  only  relative  on  earth.  “Her  de¬ 
cease,”  he  said,  with  a  bitterness  which  I  can  never 
forget,  “  would  leave  him  (him  the  hopeless  and  the 
frail)  the  last  of  the  ancient  race  of  the  Ushers.” 
While  he  spoke,  the  lady  Madeline  (for  so  was  she 
called)  passed  slowly  through  a  remote  portion  of  the  Jj 
apartment,  and,  without  having  noticed  my  presence,  || 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  13 


disappeared.  I  regarded  her  with  an  utter  astonish¬ 
ment  not  unmingled  with  dread,  and  yet  I  found  it 
impossible  to  account  for  such  feelings.  A  sensation 
of  stupor  oppressed  me,  as  my  eyes  followed  her  re¬ 
treating  steps.  When  a  door,  at  length,  closed  upon 
her,  my  glance  sought  instinctively  and  eagerly  the 
countenance  of  the  brother;  but  he  had  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  I  could  only  perceive  that  a 
far  more  than  ordinary  wanness  had  overspread  the 
emaciated  fingers  through  which  trickled  many  pas¬ 
sionate  tears. 

The  disease  of  the  lady  Madeline  had  long  baffled 
the  skill  of  her  physicians.  A  settled  apathy,  a 
gradual  wasting  away  of  the  person,  and  frequent 
although  transient  affections  of  a  partially  catalepti- 
cal  character,  were  the  unusual  diagnosis.  Hitherto 
she  had  steadily  borne  up  against  the  pressure  of  her 
malady,  and  had  not  betaken  herself  finally  to  bed; 
but,  on  the  closing  in  of  the  evening  of  my  arrival  at 
the  house,  she  succumbed  (as  her  brother  told  me  at 
night  with  inexpressible  agitation)  to  the  prostrating 
power  of  the  destroyer ;  and  I  learned  that  the  glimpse 
I  had  obtained  of  her  person  would  thus  probably  be 
the  last  I  should  obtain  —  that  the  lady,  at  least  while 
living,  would  be  seen  by  me  no  more. 


14 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 


For  several  days  ensuing,  her  name  was  unmen¬ 
tioned  by  either  Usher  or  myself  j  and  during  this 
period  I  was  busied  in  earnest  endeavors  to  alleviate 
the  melancholy  of  my  friend.  We  painted  and  read 
together ;  or  I  listened,  as  if  in  a  dream,  to  the  wild 
improvisations  of  his  speaking  guitar.  And  thus,  as 
a  closer  and  still  closer  intimacy  admitted  me  more 
unreservedly  into  the  recesses  of  his  spirit,  the  more 
bitterly  did  I  perceive  the  futility  of  all  attempt  at 
cheering  a  mind  from  which  darkness,  as  if  an  in¬ 
herent  positive  quality,  poured  forth  upon  all  objects 
of  the  moral  and  physical  universe,  in  one  unceasing 
radiation  of  gloom. 

I  shall  ever  bear  about  me  a  memory  of  the  many 
'  solemn  hours  I  thus  spent  alone  with  the  master  of 
the  House  of  Usher.  Yet  I  should  fail  in  any  attempt 
to  convey  an  idea  of  the  exact  character  of  the 
studies,  or  of  the  occupations,  in  which  he  involved 
.me,  or  led  me  the  way.  An  excited  and  highly  dis¬ 
tempered  ideality  threw  a  sulphureous  lustre  over  all. 
His  long  improvised  dirges  will  ring  forever  in  my 
ears.  Among  other  things,  I  hold  painfully  in  mind 
a  certain  singular  perversion  and  amplification  of  the 
wild  air  of  the  last  waltz  of  Yon  Weber.  From  the 
paintings  over  which  his  elaborate  fancy  brooded,  and 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  15 

which  grew,  touch  by  touch,  into  vaguenesses  at  which 
I  shuddered  the  more  thrillingly  because  I  shuddered 
knowing  not  why  ;  —  from  these  paintings  (vivid  as 
their  images  now  are  before  me)  I  would  in  vain 
endeavor  to  educe  more  than  a  small  portion  which 
should  lie  within  the  compass  of  merely  written  words. 
By  the  utter  simplicity,  by  the  nakedness  of  his 
designs,  he  arrested  and  overawed  attention.  If  ever 
mortal  painted  an  idea,  that  mortal  was  Koderick 
Usher.  For  me  at  least,  in  the  circumstances  then 
surrounding  me,  there  arose,  out  of  the  pure  abstrac¬ 
tions  which  the  hypochondriac  contrived  to  throw 
upon  his  canvas,  an  intensity  of  intolerable  awe,  no 
shadow  of  which  felt  I  ever  yet  in  the  contemplation 
of  the  certainly  glowing  yet  too  concrete  reveries  of 
FuSeli. 

One  of  the  phantasmagoric  conceptions  of  my  friend, 
partaking  not  so  rigidly  of  the  spirit  of  abstraction, 
may  be  shadowed  forth,  although  feebly,  in  words.  A 
small  picture  presented  the  interior  of  an  immensely 
long  and  rectangular  vault  or  tunnel,  with  low  walls, 
smooth,  white,  and  without  interruption  or  device. 
Certain  accessory  points  of  the  design  served  well  to 
convey  the  idea  that  this  excavation  lay  at  an  exceed¬ 
ing  depth  below  the  surface  of  the  earth.  No  outlet 


16  THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 

was  observed  in  any  portion  of  its  vast  extent,  and  no  ] 
torch  or  other  artificial  source  of  light  was  discern!-  j 
ble ;  yet  a  flood  of  intense  rays  rolled  throughout,  | 
and  bathed  the  whole  in  a  ghastly  and  inappropriate  j 
splendor.  | 

I  have  just  spoken  of  that  morbid  condition  of  the 
auditory  nerve  which  rendered  all  music  intolerable  to  ' 
the  sufferer,  with  the  exception  of  certain  effects  of  • 
stringed  instruments.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  narrow 
limits  to  which  he  thus  confined  himself  upon  the  ^ 
guitar,  which  gave  birth,  in  great  measure,  to  the  ' 
fantastic  character  of  his  performances.  But  the  fer¬ 
vid  facility  of  his  impromptus  could  not  be  so  ac¬ 
counted  for.  They  must  have  been,  and  were,  in 
the  notes,  as  well  as  in  the  words  of  his  wild  fan-  ^ 
tasias  (for  he  not  unfrequontly  accompanied  himself  ' 
with  rhymed  verbal  improvisations),  the  result  of  that  1 
intense  mental  collectedness  and  concentration  to  9 
which  I  have  previously  alluded  as  observable  only  I 
in  particular  moments  of  the  highest  artificial  excite-  I 
ment.  The  words  of  one  of  these  rhapsodies  I  have  I 
easily  remembered.  I  was,  perhaps,  the  more  forcibly  I 
impressed  with  it,  as  he  gave  it,  because,  in  the  under  A 
or  mystic  current  of  its  meaning,  I  fancied  that  I  per-  I 
ceived,  and  for  the  first  time,  a  full  consciousness,  on  « 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  17 


|tthe  part  of  Usher,  of  the  tottering  of  his  lofty  reason 
lupon  her  throne.  The  verses,  which  were  entitled 
‘  The  Haunted  Palace,”  °  ran  very  nearly,  if  not  ac¬ 
curately,  thus :  — 


I 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 
By  good  angels  tenanted, 

Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace  — 
Radiant  palace  —  reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought’s  dominion, 
It  stood  there  ; 

Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 
Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

II 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 


On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow, 
(This  —  all  this  — was  in  the  olden 


Time  long  ago) 


And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day. 

Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 
A  winged  odor  went  away. 


Ill 


"Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 
Through  two  luminous  cities  saw 
•Spirits  moving  musically 
To  ^  lute’s  well-tun^d  law, 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 

Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting, 
Porphyrogene, 

In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

IV 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 
Was  the  fair  palace  door. 

Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 
And  sparkling  evermore, 

A  troop  of  Echoes  whose  sweet  duty 
Was  but  to  sing. 

In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty. 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

V 

But  evil  things  in  robes  of  sorrow. 

Assailed  the  monarch’s  high  estate  ; 

(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 
Shall  dawn  upon  him,  desolate  !) 

And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 
That  blushed  and  bloomed 

Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 
Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

VI 

And  travellers  now  within  that  valley 
Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  19 


Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 
To  a  discordant  melody  ; 

While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever. 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more. 

I  well  remember  that  suggestions  arising  from  this 
ballad  led  us  into  a  train  of  thought,  wherein  there 
became  manifest  an  opinion  of  Usher’s  which  I  men¬ 
tion  not  so  much  on  account  of  its  novelty,  (for  other 
men  have  thought  thus,)  as  on  account  of  the  perti¬ 
nacity  with  which  he  maintained  it.  This  opinion,  in 
its  general  form,  was  that  of  the  sentience  of  all  vege¬ 
table  things.  But  in  his  disordered  fancy  the  idea 
had  assumed  a  more  daring  character,  and  trespassed, 
under  certain  conditions,  upon  the  kingdom  of  in  organ¬ 
ization.  I  lack  words  to  express  the  full  extent,  or 
the  earnest  abandon  of  his  persuasion.  The  belief, 
however,  was  connected  (as  I  have  previously  hinted) 
with  the  gray  stones  of  the  home  of  his  forefathers. 
The  conditions  of  the  sentience  had  been  here,  he 
imagined,  fulfilled  in  the  method  of  collocation  of 
these  stones  —  in  the  order  of  their  arrangement,  as 
well  as  in  that  of  the  many  fungi  which  overspread 
them,  and  of  the  decayed  trees  which  stood  around 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 


above  all,  in  the  long  undisturbed  endurance  of  this 
arrangement,  and  in  its  reduplication  in  the  still  waters 
of  the  tarn.  Its  evidence  —  the  evidence  of  the  sen¬ 
tience —  was  to  be  seen,  he  said  (and  I  here  started 
as  he  spoke),  in  the  gradual  yet  certain  condensation 
of  an  atmosphere  of  their  own  about  the  waters  and 
the  walls.  The  result  was  discoverable,  he  added,  in 
that  silent,  yet  importunate  and  terrible  influence  which 
for  centuries  had  moulded  the  destinies  of  his  family, 
and  which  made  him  what  I  now  saw  him  —  what  he 

was.  Such  opinions  need  no  comment,  and  I  will 
make  none. 

Our  books  —  the  books  which,  for  years,  had  formed 
no  small  portion  of  the  mental  existence  of  the  invalid 
—  were,  as  might  be  supposed,  in  strict  keeping  with 
this  character  of  phantasm.  We  pored  together  over 
such  works  as  the  Ververt  and  Chartreuse  of  Gres- 
set the  Belphegor  of  Machiavelli ;  °  the  Heaven 
a7id  Hell  of  Swedenborg;  the  Subterranean  Voyage 
of  Nicholas  Klimm  by  Holberg ;  °  the  Chiromancy  of 
Eobert  Find,  of  Jean  D’Indagine,  and  of  De  la 
Chambre ;  the  Journey  into  the  Blue  Distance  of 
Tieck;  and  the  City  of  the  Sun  of  Campanella.® 
One  favorite  volume  was  a  small  octavo  edition  of  the 
Directorium  Inquisitor ium^  by  the  Dominican  Eymeric 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  21 


de  Gironne;  and  there  were  passages  in  Pomponins 
Mela,°  about  the  old  African  Satyrs  and  u^gipans, 
over  which  Usher  would  sit  dreaming  for  hours.  His 
chief  delight,  however,  was  found  in  the  perusal  of  an 
exceedingly  rare  and  curious  book  in  quarto  Gothic  — 
the  manual  of  a  forgotten  church  —  the  Vigilice  Mor- 
tuorum  secundum  Chorum  Ecclesice  Maguntince. 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  wild  ritual  of  this 
work,  and  of  its  probable  influence  upon  the  hypo¬ 
chondriac,  when  one  evening,  having  informed  me 
abruptly  that  the  lady  Madeline  was  no  more,  he 
stated  his  intention  of  preserving  her  corpse  for  a  fort¬ 
night,  (previously  to  its  final  interment,)  in  one  of  the 
numerous  vaults  within  the  main  walls  of  the  .build¬ 
ing.  The  worldly  reason,  however,  assigned  for  this 
singular  proceeding,  was  one  which  I  did  not  feel  at 
liberty  to  dispute.  The  brother  had  been  led  to  his 
resolution  (so  he  told  me)  by  consideration  of  the  un¬ 
usual  character  of  the  malady  of  the  deceased,  of  cer¬ 
tain  obtrusive  and  eager  inquiries  on  the  part  of  her 
medical  men,  and  of  the  remote  and  exposed  situation 
of  the  burial-ground  of  the  family.  I  will  not  deny 
that  when  I  called  to  mind  the  sinister  countenance 
of  the  person  whom  I  met  upon  the  staircase,  on  the 
day  of  my  arrival  at  the  house,  I  had  no  desire  to 


-“V' 


22  THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 

oppose  what  I  regarded  as  at  best  but  a  harmless,  and 
by  no  means  an  unnatural,  precaution. 

At  the  request  of  Usher,  I  personally  aided  him  in 
the  arrangements  for  the  temporary  entombment.  The 
body  having  been  encoffined,  we  two  alone  bore  it  to 
its  rest. '  The  vault  in  which  we  placed  it  (and  which 
had  been  so  long  unopened  that  our  torches,  half 
smothered  in  its  oppressive  atmosphere,  gave  us  little 
opportunity  for  investigation)  was  small,  damp,  and 
entirely  without  means  of  admission  for  light ;  lying, 
at  great  depth,  immediately  beneath  that  portion  of 
the  building  in  which  was  my  own  sleeping  apartment. 
It  had  been  used,  apparently,  in  remote  feudal  times, 
for  the  worst  purposes  of  a  donjon-keep,  ana  in  later 
days  as  a  place  of  deposit  for  powder,  or  some  other 
highly  combustible  substance,  as  a  portion  of  its  floor, 
and  the  whole  interior  of  a  long  archway  through 
which  we  reached  it,  were  carefully  sheathed  with 
copper.  The  door,  of  massive  iron,  haa  been,  also, 
similarly  protected.  Its  immense  weight  caused  an 
unusually  sharp  grating  sound,  as  it  moved  upon  its 
hinges. 

Having  deposited  our  mournful  burden  upon  tressels 
within  this  region  of  horror,  we  partially  turned  aside 

the  yet  unscrewed  lid  of  the  coffin,  and  looked  upon 

/ 

/ 

s 


THE  Fall  of  the  house  of  usher  23 


the  face  of  the  tenant.  A  striking  similitude  be¬ 
tween  the  brother  and  sister  now  first  arrested  my 
attention  ;  and  Usher,  divining,  perhaps,  my  thoughts, 
murmured  out  some  few  words  from  which  I  learned 
that  the  deceased  and  himself  had  been  twins,  and 
that  sympathies  of  a  scarcely  intelligible  nature  had 
always  existed  between  them.  Our  glances,  however, 
rested  not  long  upon  the  dead  —  for  we  could  not  re¬ 
gard  her  unawed.  The  disease  which  had  thus  en¬ 
tombed  the  lady  in  the  maturity  of  youth,  had  left,  as 
usual  in  all  maladies  of  a  strictly  cataleptical  charac¬ 
ter,  the  mockery  of  a  faint  blush  upon  the  bosom  and 
the  face,  and  that  suspiciously  lingering  smile  upon 
the  lip  which  is  so  terrible  in  death.  We  replaced 
and  screwed  down  the  lid,  nnd.  having  secured  the 
door  of  iron^  made  our  way,  with  toil,  into  t^ scarcely 
less  gloomy  apartments  of  the  upper  portion  of  the 
house. 

And  now,  some  days  of  bitter  grief  having  elapsed, 
an  observable  change  came  over  the  features  of  the 
mental  disorder  of  my  friend.  His  ordinary  manner 
had  vanished.  His  ordinary  occupations  were  neg¬ 
lected  or  forgotten.  He  roamed  from  chamber  to 
chamber  with  hurried,  unequal,  and.  objectless  step. 
The  pallor  of  his  countenance  had  assumed,  if  pos- 


24  THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 

sible,  a  more  ghastly  hue  —  but  the  luminousness  of 
his  eye  had  utterly  gone  out.  The  once  occasional 
huskiness  of  his  tone  was  heard  no  more ;  and  a  tremu¬ 
lous  quaver,  as  if  of  extreme  terror,  habitually  charac¬ 
terized  his  utterance.  There  were  times,  indeed,  when 
I  thought  his  unceasingly  agitated  mind  was  laboring 
with  some  oppressive  secret,  to  divulge  which  he  strug¬ 
gled  for  the  necessary  courage.  At  times,  again,  I 
was  obliged  to  resolve  all  into  the  mere  inexplicable 
vagaries  of  madness,  for  I  beheld  him  gazing  upon 
vacancy  for  long  hours,  in  an  attitude  of  the  pro- 
foundest  attention,  as  if  listening  to  some  imaginary 
sound.  It  was  no  wonder  that  his  condition  terrified 
that  it  infected  me.  I  felt  creeping  upon  me,  by 
slow  yet  certain  degrees,  the  wild  influences  of  his 
own  fantastic  yet  impressive  superstitions. 

It  was,  especially,  upon  retiring  to  bed  late  in  the 
night  of  the  seventh  or  eighth  day  after  the  placing  of 
the  Lady  Madeline  within  the  donjon,  that  I  experi¬ 
enced  the  full  power  of  such  feelings.  Sleep  came 
not  near  my  couch,  while  the  hours  waned  and  waned 
away.  I  struggled  to  reason  off  the  nervousness  which 
had  dominion  over  me.  I  endeavored  to  believe  that 
much,  if  not  all,  of  what  I  felt  was  due  to  the  bewilder¬ 
ing  influence  of  the  gloomy  furniture  of  the  room _ 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  25 

of  the  dark  and  tattered  draperies  which,  tortured  into 
I  motion  by  the  breath  of  a  rising  tempest,  swayed  fit- 
1  fully  to  and  fro  upon  the  walls,  and  rustled  uneasily 
about  the  decorations  of  the  bed.  But  my  efforts  were 
I  fruitless.  An  irrepressible  tremor  gradually  pervaded 
I  my'  frame ;  and  at  length  there  sat  upon  my  very  heart 
an  incubus  of  utterly  causeless  alarm.  Shaking  this 
off  with  a  gasp  and  a  struggle,  I  uplifted  myself  upon 
the  pillows,  and,  peering  earnestly  within  the  intense 
darkness  of  the  chamber,  hearkened — I  know  not  why, 
except  that  an  instinctive  spirit  prompted  me  —  to 
certain  low  and  indefinite  sounds  which  came,  through 
the  pauses  of  the  storm,  at  long  intervals,  I  knew  not 
whence.  Overpowered  by  an  intense  sentiment  of 
horror,  unaccountable  yet  unendurable,  I  threw  on  my 
clothes  with  haste,  (for  I  felt  that  I  should  sleep  no 
more  during  the  night,)  and  endeavored  to  arouse  my¬ 
self  from  the  pitiable  condition  into  which  I  had  fallen, 
by  pacing  rapidly  to  and  fro  through  the  apartment. 

I  had  taken  but  few  turns  in  this  manner,  when  a 
light  step  on  an  adjoining  staircase  arrested  my  atten¬ 
tion.  I  presently  recognized  it  as  that  of  Usher.  In 
an  instant  afterward  he  rapped  with  a  gentle  touch  at 
my  door,  and  entered,  bearing  a  lamp.  His  counte¬ 
nance  was,  as  usual,  cadaverously  wan  —  but,  more- 


26  THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 

over,  there  was  a  species  of  mad  hilarity  in  his  eyes 
—  an  evidently  restrained  hysteria  iii  his  whole  de¬ 
meanor.  His  air  appalled  me  —  but  anything  was 
preferable  to  the  solitude  which  I  had  so  long  endured, 
and  I  even  welcomed  his  presence  as  a  relief. 

^^And  you  have  not  seen  it?’^  he  said  abruptly, 
after  having  stared  about  him  for  some  moments  in 
silence  —  “you  have  not  then  seen  it?  —  but,  stay! 
you  shall. Thus  speaking,  and  having  carefully 
shaded  his  lamp,  he  hurried  to  one  of  the  casements, 
and  threw  it  freely  open  to  the  storm. 

The  impetuous  fury  of  the  entering  gust  nearly 
lifted  us  from  our  feet.  It  was,  indeed,  a  tempestuous 
yet  sternly  beautiful  night,  and  one  wildly  singular 
in  its  terror  and  its  beauty.  A  whirlwind  had  appar¬ 
ently  collected  its  force  in  our  vicinity  ;  for  there  were 
frequent  and  violent  alterations  in  the  direction  of  the 
wind ;  and  the  exceeding  density  of  the  clouds  (which 
hung  so  low  as  to  press  upon  the  turrets  of  the  house) 
did  not  prevent  our  perceiving  the  life-like  velocity 
with  which  they  flew  careering  from  all  points  against 
each  other,  without  passing  away  into  the  distance. 

I  say  that  even  their  exceeding  density  did  not  pre¬ 
vent  our  perceiving  this;  yet  we  had  no  glimpse  of 
the  moon  or  stars,  nor  was  there  any  flashing  forth  of 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  27 

the  lightning.  But  the  under  surfaces  of  the  huge 
masses  of  agitated  vapor,  as  well  as  all  terrestrial 
objects  immediately  around  us,  were  glowing  in  the 
unnatural  light  of  a  faintly  luminous  and  distinctly 
visible  gaseous  exhalation  which  hung  about  and  en¬ 
shrouded  the  mansion. 

You  must  not  —  you  shall  not  behold  this !  ”  said 
I,  shudderingly,  to  Usher,  as  I  led  him  with  a  gentle 
violence  from  the  window  to  a  seat.  These  appear¬ 
ances,  which  bewilder  you,  are  merely  electrical  phe¬ 
nomena  not  uncommon  —  or  it  may  be  that  they  have 
their  ghastly  origin  in  the  rank  miasma  of  the  tarn. 
Let  us  close  this  casement;  the  air  is  chilling  and 
dangerous  to  your  frame.  Here  is  one  of  your  favor¬ 
ite  romances.  I  will  read,  and  you  shall  listen;  and 
so  we  will  pass  away  this  terrible  night  together.” 

The  antique  volume  which  I  had  taken  up  was  the 
Mad  Trist  of  Sir  Launcelot  Canning;  but  I  had 
called  it  a  favorite  of  Usher’s  more  in  sad  jest  than  in 
earnest ;  for,  in  truth,  there  is  little  in  its  uncouth  and 
unimaginative  prolixity  which  could  have  had  interest 
for  the  lofty  and  spiritual  ideality  of  my  friend.  It 
was,  however,  the  only  book  immediately  at  hand 
and  I  indulged  a  vague  hope  that  the  excitement 
which  now  agitated  the  hypochondriac  might  find 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 


relief  (for  the  history  of  mental  disorder  is  full  of 
similar  anomalies)  even  in  the  extremeness  of  the  folly 
which  I  should  read.  Could  I  have  judged,  indeed,  by 
the  wild  overstrained  air  of  vivacity  with  which  he 
hearkened,  or  apparently  hearkened,  to  the  words  of 
the  tale,  I  might  well  have  congratulated  myself  upon 
the  success  of  my  design. 

I  had  arrived  at  that  well-known  portion  of  the 
story  where^  Ethelred,  the  hero  of  the  Trist,  having 
sought  in  vain  for  peaceable  admission  into  the  dwell 
ing  of  the  hermit,  proceeds  to  make  good  an  entrance 
by  force.  Here,  it  will  be  remembered,  the  words  of 
the  narrative  run  thus  :  — 

“And  Ethelred,  who  was  by  nature  of  a  doughty  heart,  and 
who  was  now  mighty  withal,  on  account  of  the  powerfulness  of 
«  the  wine  which  he  had  drunken,  waited  no  longer  to  hold 
^  parley  with  the  hermit,  who,  in  sooth,  was  of  an  obstinate  and 
A  mahceful  turn,  but,  feeling  the  rain  upon  his  shoulders,  and 
Y  fearing  the  rising  of  the  tempest,  uplifted  his  mace  outright, 
^  and  with  blows  made  quickly  room  in  the  planking  of  the  door 
^  for  his  gauntleted  hand;  and  now  pulling  therewith  sturdily, 
so  cracked,  and  ripped,  and  tore  all  asunder,  that  the  noise  of 

the  dry  and  hollow-sounding  wood  alarmed  and  reverberated 
^.^roughout  the  forest.” 

6  At  the  termination  of  this  sentence  I  started,  and 
for  a  moment  paused ;  for  it  appeared  to  me  (although 


oo 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  29 

I 

I  at  once  concluded  that  my  excited  fancy  had  deceived 
[rnie)  —  it  appeared  to  me  that  from  some  very  remote 
{portion  of  the  mansion  there  came,  indistinctly,  to  my 
•  ears,  what  might  have  been,  in  its  exact  similarity  of 
character,  the  echo  (but  a  stifled  and  dull  one  cer- 
ttainly)  of' the  very  cracking  and  ripping  sound  which 
'  Sir  Launcelot  had  so  particularly  described.  It  was, 

1  beyond  doubt,  the  coincidence  alone  which  had  arrested 
1  my  attention ;  for,  amid  the  rattling  of  the  sashes  of 
1  the  casements,  and  the  ordinary  commingled  noises  of 
the  still  increasing  storm,  the  sound,  in  itself,  had 
nothing,  surely,  which  should  have  interested  or  dis¬ 
turbed  me.  I  continued  the  story  :  — 

“  But  tlie  good  champion  Ethelred,  now  entering  within  the 
door,  was  sore  enraged  and  amazed  to  perceive  no  signal  of  the 
maliceful  hermit ;  hut,  in  the  stead  thereof,  a  dragon  of  a  scaly 
and  prodigious  demeanor,  and  of  a  fiery  tongue,  which  sate  in 
guard  before  a  palace  of  gold,  with  a  floor  of  silver  ;  and  upon 
the  wall  there  hung  a  shield  of  shining  brass  with  this  legend 

en  written  — 

Who  entereth  herein,  a  conqueror  hath  bin  ;  ^ 

Who  slayeth  the  dragon,  the  shield  he  shall  win. 

And  Ethelred  uplifted  his  mace,  and  struck  upon  the  head  of 
the  dragon,  which  fell  before  him,  and  gave  up  his  pesty  breath, 
with  a  shriek  so  horrid  and  harsh,  and  withal  so  piercing,  that 


cJU  THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  ? 

Ethelred  had  fain  to  close  his  ears  with  his  hands  against  the  | 
dreadful  noise  of  it,  the  like  whereof  was  never  before  heard.” 

Here  again  I  paused  abruptly,  and  now  with  a  feel-  i 
ing  of  wild  amazement ;  for  there  could  be  no  doubt  ^ 
whatever  that,  in  this  instance,  I  did  actually  hear 
(although  from  what  direction  it  proceeded  I  found  it 
impossible  to  say)  a  low  and  apparently  distant,  but  I 
harsh,  protracted,  and  most  unusual  screaming  or  grat-  i 
ing  sound  the  exact  counterpart  of  what  my  fancy 
had  already  conjured  up  for  the  dragon’s  unnatural 
shriek  as  described  by  the  romancer. 

Oppressed,  as  I  certainly  was,  upon  the  occurrence  ^ 
of  this  second  and  most  extraordinary  coincidence,  by 
a  thousand  conflicting  sensations,  in  which  wonder  ' 
and  extreme  terror  were  predominant,  I  still  retained  - 
su^fficient  presence  of  mind  to  avoid  exciting,  by  any 
observation,  the  sensitive  nervousness  of  my  com¬ 
panion.  I  was  by  no  means  certain  that  he  had 
noticed  the  sounds  in  question}  although,  assuredly,  *1 
a  strange  alteration  had  during  the  last  few  minutes  !' 
taken  place  in  his  demeanor.  From  a  position  front-  ji 
ing  my  own,  he  had  gradually  brought  round  his  chair,  vi 
so  as  to  sit  with  his  face  to  the  door  of  the  chamber ;  'j 
and  thus  I  could  but  partially  perceive  his  features,  *| 
although  I  saw  that  his  lips  trembled  as  if  he  were  |‘ 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 


31 


murmuring  inaudibly.  His  head  had  dropped  upon 
his  breast  —  yet  I  knew  that  he  was  not  asleep,  from 
the  wide  and  rigid  opening  of  the  eye  as  I  caught  a 
glance  of  it  in  profile.  The  motion  of  his  body,  too, 
was  at  variance  with  this  idea  —  for  he  rocked  from 
side  to  side  with  a  gentle  yet  constant  and  uniform 
sway.  Having  rapidly  taken  notice  of  all  this,  I  re¬ 
sumed  the  narrative  of  Sir  Launcelot,  which  thus 
proceeded :  — 

“  And  now,  the  champion,  having  escaped  from  the  terrible 
fury  of  the  dragon,  bethinking  himself  of  the  brazen  shield, 
and  of  the  breaking  up  of  the  enchantment  which  was  upon  it, 
removed  the  carcass  from  out  of  the  way  before  him,  and  ap¬ 
proached  valorously  over  the  silver  pavement  of  the  castle  to 
where  the  shield  was  upon  the  wall ;  which  in  sooth  tarried  not 
for  his  full  coming,  but  fell  down  at  his  feet  upon  the  silver 
floor,  with  a  mighty  great  and  terrible  ringing  sound.” 

Ho  sooner  had  these  syllables  passed  my  lips,  than 
—  as  if  a  shield  of  brass  had  indeed,  at  the  moment, 
fallen  heavily  upon  a  floor  of  silver  —  I  became  aware 
of  a  distinct,  hollow,  metallic  and  clangorous  yet  ap^ 
parently  muffled  reverberation.  Completely  unnerved, 
I  leaped  to  my  feet ;  but  the  measured  rocking  move¬ 
ment  of  Usher  was  undisturbed.  I  rushed  to  the 
chair  in  which  he  sat.  His  eyes  were  bent  fixedly 


32  THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 

before  him,  and  throughout  his  whole  countenance 
there  reigned  a  stony  rigidity.  But,  as  I  placed  my 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  there  came  a  strong  shudder 
over  his  whole  person ;  a  sickly  smile  quivered  abCut 
his  lips  5  and  I  saw  that  he  spoke  in  a  low,  hurried, 
and  gibbering  murmur,  as  if  unconscious  of  my  pres¬ 
ence.  Bending  closely  over  him,  I  at  length  drank 
in  the  hideous  import  of  his  words. 

^^Not  hear  it?  —  yes,  I  hear  it,  and  have  heard  it. 
Long  —  long  —  long  —  many  minutes,  many  hours, 
many  days,  have  I  heard  it  — yet  I  dared  not  — oh, 
pity  me,  miserable  wretch  that  I  am!  —  I  dared  not 
—  I  dared  not  speak  !  We  have  put  her  living  in  the 
tomb  !  Said  I  not  that  my  senses  were  acute  ?  I  now 
tell  you  that  I  heard  her  first  feeble  movements  in 
the  hollow  coffin.  I  heard  them  —  many,  many  days 
—  y 6^  I  dared  not  —  I  dared  not  speak  !  And  now 
to-night  —  Ethelred  —  ha !  ha !  —  the  breaking  of  the 
hermit’s  door,  and  the  death-cry  of  the  dragon,  and 
the  clangor  of  the  shield !  —  say,  rather,  the  rending 
of  her  coffin,  and  the  grating  of  the  iron  hinges  of  her 
prison,  and  her  struggles  within  the  coppered  archway 
of  the  vault !  Oh,  whither  shall  I  fly  ?  Will  she  not 
be  here  anon  ?  Is  she  not  hurrying  to  upbraid  me  for 
my  haste  ?  Have  I  not  heard  her  footstep  on  the 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER  33 

stair  ?  Do  I  not  distinguish  that  heavy  and  horrible 
beating  of  her  heart  ?  Madman  !  ’’  —  here  he  sprang 
furiously  to  his  feet,  and  shrieked  out  his  syllables, 
as  if  in  the  effort  he  were  giving  up  his  soul  — 
Madman  I  I  tell  you  that  she  now  stands  without  the 
door !  ” 

As  if  in  the  superhuman  energy  of  his  utterance 
there  had  been  found  the  potency  of  a  spell,  the  huge 
antique  panels  to  which  the  speaker  pointed  threw 
slowly  back,  upon  the  instant,  their  ponderous  and 
ebtoy  jaws.  It  was  the  work  of  the  rushing  gust  — 
but  then  without  those  doors  there  did  stand  the  lofty 
and  enshrouded  figure  of  the  Lady  Madeline  of  Usher. 
There  was  blood  upon  her  white  robes,  and  the  evi¬ 
dence  of  some  bitter  struggle  upon  every  portion  of 
her  emaciated  frame.  For  a  moment  she  remained 
.trembling  and  reeling  to  and  fro  upon  the  threshold  — 
then,  with  a  low  moaning  cry,  fell  heavily  inward  upon 
the  person  of  her  brother,  and,  in  her  violent  and  now 
final  death-agonies,  bore  him  to  the  floor  a  corpse,  and 
a  victim  to  the  terrors  he  had  anticipated. 

FrdmminF~^amber,  and  from  that  mansion,  I  fled 
aghast.  The  storm  was  still  abroad  in  all  its  wrath  as 
I  found  myself  crossing  the  old  causeway.  Suddenly 
there  shot  along  the  path  a  wild  light,  and  I  turned  to 


34 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF'  USHER  \ 

see  whence  a  gleam  so  unusual  could  have  issued-  ^ 
for  the  vast  house  and  its  shadows  were  alone  behind 
me.  The  radiance  was  that  of  the  full,  setting,  and 
blood-red  moon,  which  now  shone  vividly  through  ; 
that  once  barely  discernible  fissure,  of  which  I  have 
before  spoken  as  extending  from  the  roof  of  the  build¬ 
ing,  m  a  zigzag  direction,  to  the  base.  While  I  gazed 
this  fissure  rapidly  widened  — there  came  a  fierce  - 
breath  of  the  whirlwind  —  the  entire  orb  of  the  satel-  r 
lite  burst  at  once  upon  my  sight  —  my  brain  reeled  as  \ 
saw  the  mighty  walls  rushing  asunder  —  there  was 
a  long  tumultuous  shouting  sound  like  the  voice  of  a 
thousand  waters  -  and  the  deep  and  dank  tarn  at  my  1 
feet  closed  sullenly  and  silently  over  the  fragments  of 
the  House  of  Usher 1 


LIGEIA°* 


And  the  will  therein  lieth,  which  dieth  not.  Who  knoweth 
the  mysteries  of  the  will,  with  its  vigor  ?  For  God  is  hut  a 
great  will  pervading  all  things  by  nature  of  its  intentness.  Man 
doth  not  yield  himself  to  the  angels,  nor  unto  death  utterly, 
save  only  through  the  weakness  of  his  feeble  will. 

Joseph  Glanvill. 

I  CANNOT,  for  my  soul,  remember  how,  when,  or 
even  precisely  where,  I  first  became  acquainted  with 
the  Lady  Ligeia.  Long  years  have  since  elapsed,  and 
I  my  memory  is  feeble  through  much  suffering.  Or, 
perhaps,  I  cannot  now  bring  these  points  to  mind, 

1  because  in  truth  the  character  of  my  beloved,  her  rare 
learning,  her  singular  yet  placid  cast  of  beauty,  and 
the  thrilling  and  enthralling  eloquence  of  her  low 
1  musical  language,  made  their  way  into  my  heart  by 
paces  so  steadily  and  stealthily  progressive  that  they 
have  been  unnoticed  and  unknown.  Yet  I  believe 
that  I  met  her  first  and  most  frequently  in  some  large, 
old,  decaying  city  near  the  Rhine.  Of  her  family  I 
*  By  permission  of  H.  S.  Stone  &  Co. 

35 


36 


LIGEIA 


have  surely  heard  her  speak.  That  it  is  of  a  remotely  H 
ancient  date  cannot  be  doubted.  Ligeia !  Ligeia !  | 
Buried  in  studies  of  a  nature  more  than  all  else  1 
adapted  to  deaden  impressions  of  the  outward  world,  i 
it  is  by  that  sweet  word  alone  —  by  Ligeia  —  that  I  ^ 
bring  before  mine  eyes  in  fancy  the  image  of  her  who  J 
is  no  more.  And  now,  while  I  write,  a  recollection 
flashes  upon  me  that  I  have  never  known  the  paternal 
name  of  her  who  was  my  friend  and  my  betrothed, 
and  who  became  the  partner  of  my  studies,  and  finally 
the  wife  of  my  bosom.  Was  it  a  playful  charge  on 
the  part  of  my  Ligeia  ?  or  was  it  a  test  of  my  strength  : 
of  affection,  that  I  should  institute  no  inquiries  upon  J 
this  point  ?  or  was  it  rather  a  caprice  of  my  own  —  a  . 
wildly  romantic  offering  on  the  shrine  of  the  most 
passionate  devotion  ?  I  but  indistinctly  recall  the 
fact  itself — what  wonder  that  I  have  utterly  for-  I 
gotten  the  circumstances  which  originated  or  attended 
it  ?  And,  indeed,  if  ever  that  spirit  which  is  entitled 
Romance  —  if  ever  she,  the  wan  and  the  misty-winged 
Ashtophet  of  idolatrous  Egypt,  presided,  as  they  tell, 
over  marriages  ill-omened,  then  most  surely  she  pre¬ 
sided  over  mine. 

There  is  one  dear  topic,  however,  on  which  my 
memory  fails  me  not.  It  is  the  person  of  Ligeia.  In 


LIGEIA 


37 


t.tature  slie  was  tall,  somewliat  slender,  and,  in  her  lat¬ 
er  days,  even  emaciated.  I  would  in  vain  attempt  to 
oortray  the  majesty,  the  quiet  ease,  of  her  demeanor, 
)r  the  incomprehensible  lightness  and  elasticity  of  her 
[ootfall.  She  came  and  departed  as  a  shadow.  I  was 
aever  made  aware  of  her  entrance  into  my  closed 
study,  save  by  the  dear  music  of  her  low  sweet  voice, 
as  she  placed  her  marble  hand  upon  my  shoulder.  In 
‘  beauty  of  face  no  maiden  ever  equalled  her.  It  was 
I  the  radiance  of  an  opium-dream  an  airy  and  spirit¬ 
lifting  vision  more  wildly  divine  than  the  fantasies 
which  hovered  about  the  slumbering  souls  of  the 
'  daughters  of  Delos.  Yet  her  features  were  not  of 
:that  regular  mould  which  we  have  been  falsely  taught 
:to  worship  in  the  classical  labors  of  the  heathen. 

There  is  no  exquisite  beauty,”  says  Bacon,  Lord 
Verulam,  speaking  truly  of  all  the  forms  and  genera 
of  beauty,  without  some  strangeness  in  the  propor- 
^  tion.”  Yet,  although  I  saw  that  the  features  of  Ligeia 
were  not  of  a  classic  regularity  —  although  I  perceived 
■  that  her  loveliness  was  indeed  exquisite,”  and  felt 
that  there  was  much  of  strangeness  ”  pervading  it, 
yet  I  have  tried  in  vain  to  detect  the  irregularity  and 
to  trace  home  my  own  perception  of  “the  strange.” 
I  examined  the  contour  of  the  lofty  and  pale  fore* 


38 


LIGEIA 


head:  it  was  faultless  —  how  cold  indeed  that  word 
when  applied  to  a  majesty  so  divine  !  —  the  skin  rival¬ 
ling  the  purest  ivory,  the  commanding  extent  and  re¬ 
pose,  the  gentle  prominence  of  the  regions  above  the 
temples ;  and  then  the  raven-black,  the  glossy,  the  < 
luxuriant  and  naturally  curling  tresses,  setting  forth 
the  full  force  of  the  Homeric  epithet,  ‘‘  hyacinthine ! 

I  looked  at  the  delicate  outlines  of  the  nose  —  and  no¬ 
where  but  in  the  graceful  medallions  of  the  Hebrews 
had  I  beheld  a  similar  perfection.  There  were  the 
same  luxurious  smoothness  of  surface,  the  same 
scarcely  perceptible  tendency  to  the  aquiline,  the 
same  harmoniously  curved  nostrils  speaking  the  free 
spirit.  I  regarded  the  sweet  mouth.  Here  was 
indeed  the  triumph  of  all  things  heavenly  —  the 
magnificent  turn  of  the  short  upper  lip  —  the  soft, 
voluptuous  slumber  of  the  under  —  the  dimples  which 
sported,  and  the  color  which  spoke  —  the  teeth  glanc¬ 
ing  back,  with  a  brilliancy  almost  startling,  every  ray 
of  the  holy  light  which  fell  upon  them  in  her  serene 
and  placid,  yet  most  exultingly  radiant  of  all  smiles.  I 
I  scrutinized  the  formation  of  the  chin :  and  here,  too,  , 
I  found  the  gentleness  of  breadth,  the  softness  and  j 
the  majesty,  the  fulness  and  the  spirituality,  of  the  j 
Greek  —  the  contour  which  the  god  Apollo  revealed  | 


LIGEIA 


39 


but  in  a  dream  to  Cleomenes,  the  son  of  the  Athenian. 
And  then  I  peered  into  the  large  eyes  of  Ligeia. 

;  For  eyes  we  have  no  models  in  the  remotely  antique. 

:  It  might  have  been,  too,  that  in  these  eyes  of  my  be- 
^  loved  lay  the  secret  to  which  Lord  Verulam  alludes. 

1  They  were,  I  must  believe,  far  larger  than  the  ordi- 
I  nary  eyes  of  our  own  race.  They  were  even  fuller 
than  the  fullest  of  the  gazelle  eyes  of  the  tribe  of  the 
valley  of  ISTourjahad.  Yet  it  was  only  at  intervals  — 
in  moments  of  intense  excitement  —  that  this  peculi¬ 
arity  became  more  than  slightly  noticeable  in  Ligeia. 
And  at  such  moments  was  her  beauty  —  in  my  heated 
fancy  thus  it  appeared  perhaps— the  beauty  of  beings 
either  above  or  apart  from  the  earth,  the  beauty  of  the 
fabulous  Houri  of  the  Turk.  The  hue  of  the  orbs  was 
the  most  brilliant  of  black,  and,  far  over  them,  hung 
jetty  lashes  of  great  length.  The  brows,  slightly 
irregular  in  outline,  had  the  same  tint.  The  “  strange¬ 
ness,’’  however,  which  I  found  in  the  eyes,  was  of  a 
nature  distinct  from  the  formation,  or  the  color,  or  the 
brilliancy  of  the  features,  and  must,  after  all,  be  re¬ 
ferred  to  the  expression.  Ah,  word  of  no  meaning ! 
behind  whose  vast  latitude  of  mere  sound  we  intrench 
our  ignorance  of  so  much  of  the  spiritual.  The  ex¬ 
pression  of  the  eyes  of  Ligeia!  How  for  long  hours 


40 


LIGEIA 


have  I  pondered  upon  it !  How  have  I,  through  the 
whole  of  a  inidsummer  night,  struggled  to  fathom  it ! 
What  was  it  —  that  something  more  profound  than 
the  well  of  Democritus  —  which  lay  far  within  the 
pupils  of  my  beloved  ?  What  was  it  ?  I  was  pos¬ 
sessed  with  a  passion  to  discover.  Those  eyes  !  those 
large,  those  shining,  those  divine  orbs !  they  became 
to  me  twin  stars  of  Leda,  and  I  to  them  devoutest  of 
astrologers. 

There  is  no  point,  among  the  many  incomprehen¬ 
sible  anomalies  of  the  science  of  mind,  more  thrillingly 
exciting  than  the  fact  —  never,  I  believe,  noticed  in 
the  schools  —  that  in  our  endeavors  to  recall  to  mem¬ 
ory  something  long  forgotten,  we  often  find  ourselves 
upon  the  very  verge  of  remembrance,  without  being 
able,  in  the  end,  to  remember.  And  thus  how  fre¬ 
quently,  in  my  intense  scrutiny  of  Ligeia’s  eyes,  have 
I  felt  approaching  the  full  knowledge  of  their  expres¬ 
sion —  felt  it  approaching,  yet  not  quite  be  mine,  and 
so  at  length  entirely  depart !  And  (strange,  oh  strang¬ 
est  mystery  of  all !)  I  found,  in  the  commonest  objects 
of  the  universe,  a  circle  of  analogies  to  that  expression. 

I  mean  to  say  that,  subsequently  to  the  period  when 
Ligeia’s  beauty  passed  into  my  spirit,  there  dwelling 
as  in  a  shrine,  I  derived,  from  many  existences  in 


LIOEIA 


41 


the  material  world,  a  sentiment  such  as  I  felt  always 
around,  within  me,  by  her  large  and  luminous  orbs. 

,  Yet  not  the  more  could  I  define  that  sentiment,  or 
analyze,  or  even  steadily  view  it.  I  recognized  it,  let 
ii  me  repeat,  sometimes  in  the  survey  of  a  rapidly  grow- 
|i  ing  vine  —  in  the  contemplation  of  a  moth,  a  butterfly, 
li  a  chrysalis,  a  stream  of  running  water.  I  have  felt  it 
in  the  ocean ;  in  the  falling  of  a  meteor.  I  have  felt 
it  in  the  glances  of  unusually  aged  people.  And  there 
are  one  or  two  stars  in  heaven,  (one  especially,  a  star 
I  of  the  sixth  magnitude,  double  and  changeable,  to  be 
found  near  the  large  star  in  Lyra,)  in  a  telescopic 
scrutiny  of  which  I  have  been  made  aware  of  the  feel¬ 
ing.  I  have  been  filled  with  it  by  certain  sounds  from 
stringed  instruments,  and  not  unfrequently  by  pas¬ 
sages  from  books.  Among  innumerable  other  in¬ 
stances,  I  well  remember  something  in  a  volume  of 
Joseph  GlanvilPs,®  which  (perhaps  merely  from  its 
quaintness  —  who  shall  say  ?)  never  failed  to  inspire 
me  with  the  sentiment :  And  the  will  therein  lieth, 
which  dieth  not.  Who  knoweth  the  mysteries  of  the 
will,  with  its  vigor  ?  For  God  is  but  a  great  will  per¬ 
vading  all  things  by  nature  of  its  intentness.  Man 
doth  not  yield  him  to  the  angels,  nor  unto  death  utterly, 
save  only  through  the  weakness  of  his  feeble  will.” 


42 


LIGEIA 


Length  of  years  and  subsequent  reflection  have  ^ 
enabled  me  to  trace,  indeed,  some  remote  connection  • 
between  this  passage  in  the  English  moralist  and  a  I 
portion  of  the  character  of  Ligeia.  An  intensity  in 
thought,  action,  or  speech,  was  possibly,  in  her,  a  result,  i 
or  at  least  an  index,  of  that  gigantic  volition  which,  4 
during  our  long  intercourse,  failed  to  give  other  and  ^ 
more  immediate  evidence  of  its  existence.  Of  all  the  ' 
women  whom  I  have  ever  known,  she,  the  outwardly  ' 
calm,  the  ever-placid  Ligeia,  was  the  most  violently  a 
prey  to  the  tumultuous  vultures  of  stern  passion.  And  -j 
of  such  passion  I  could  form  no  estimate,  save  by  the  ^ 
miraculous  expansions  of  those  eyes  which  at  once  so  ! 
delighted  and  appalled  me  —  by  the  almost  magical  [ 
melody,  modulation,  distinctness,  and  placidity  of  her 
very  low  voice  —  and  by  the  fierce  energy  (rendered  ' 
doubly  effective  by  contrast  with  her  manner  of  utter-  ^ 
ance)  of  the  wild  words  which  she  habitually  uttered.  | 
I  have  spoken  of  the  learning  of  Ligeia:  it  was  i 
immense  such  as  I  have  never  known  in  woman. 

In  the  classical  tongues  was  she  deeply  proficient,  and 
as  far  as  my  own  acquaintance  extended  in  regard  to 
the  modern  dialects  of  Europe,  I  have  never  known 
her  at  fault.  Indeed  upon  any  theme  of  the  most 
admired,  because  simply  the  most  abstruse  of  the  ! 


LIQEIA 


43 


-oasted  erudition  of  the  academy,  have  I  ever  found 
.jigeia  at  fault  ?  How  singularly,  how  thrillingly,  this 
;»ne  point  in  the  nature  of  my  wife  has  forced  itself, 
•,t  this  late  period  only,  upon  my  attention!  I  said 
ler  knowledge  was  such  as  I  have  never  known  in 
\roman  —  but  where  breathes  the  man  who  has  trav- 
irsed,  and  successfully,  all  the  wide  areas  of  moral, 
t  )hysical,  and  mathematical  science  ?  I  saw  not  then 
fvhat  I  now  clearly  perceive,  that  the  acquisitions  of 
I  Ligeia  were  gigantic,  were  astounding ;  yet  I  was  suf- 
liciently  aware  of  her  infinite  supremacy  to  resign 
inyself,  with  a  child-like  confidence,  to  her  guidance 
i  through  the  chaotic  world  of  metaphysical  investiga- 
,  non  at  which  I  was  most  busily  occupied  during  the 
■earlier  years  of  our  marriage.  With  how  vast  a 
triumph,  with  how  vivid  a  delight,  with  how  much 
lOf  all  that  is  ethereal  in  hope,  did  I  feel,  as  she  bent 
over  me  in  studies  but  little  sought — but  less  known, 
that  delicious  vista  by  slow  degree  expanding  before 
me,  down  whose  long,  gorgeous,  and  all  untrodden 
path,  I  might  at  length  pass  onward  to  the  goal  of  a 
wisdom  too  divinely  precious  not  to  be  forbidden ! 

How  poignant,  then,  must  have  been  the  grief  with 
which,  after  some  years,  I  beheld  my  well-grounded 
:  expectations  take  wings  to  themselves  and  fly  away  / 


44 


LIOEIA 


Without  Ligeia  I  was  but  as  a  child  groping  benighted. 
Her  presence,  her  readings  alone,  rendered  vividly 
luminous  the  many  mysteries  of  the  transcendentalism 
in  which  we  were  immersed.  Wanting  the  radiant 
lustre  of  her  eyes,  letters,  lambent  and  golden,  grew  i 
duller  than  Saturnian  lead.  And  now  those  eyes 
shone  less  and  less  frequently  upon  the  pages  over 
which  I  pored.  Ligeia  grew  ill.  The  wild  eyes 
blazed  with  a  too  • —  too  glorious  effulgence ;  the  pale 
fingers  became  of  the  transparent  waxen  hue  of  the 
grave ;  and  the  blue  veins  upon  the  lofty  forehead  i 
swelled  and  sank  impetuously  with  the  tides  of  the 
most  gentle  emotion.  I  saw  that  she  must  die  — 
and  I  struggled  desperately  in  spirit  with  the  grim 
Azrael.  And  the  struggles  of  the  passionate  wife 
were,  to  my  astonishment,  even  more  energetic  than 
njy  own.  There  had  been  much  in  her  stern  nature 
to  impress  me  with  the  belief  that,  to  her,  death  would  ■ 
have  come  without  its  terrors ;  but  not  so.  Words  are  \ 
impotent  to  convey  any  just  idea  of  the  fierceness  of 
resistance  with  which  she  wrestled  with  the  Shadow.  : 
I  groaned  in  anguish  at  the  pitiable  spectacle.  I 
would  have  soothed  —  I  would  have  reasoned;  but, 
in  the  intensity  of  her  wild  desire  for  life  —  for  life  —  i 
but  for  life  —  solace  and  reason  were  alike  the  utter-  i 


LIGEIA 


45 


most  of  folly.  Yet  not  until  the  last  instance,  amid 
the  most  convulsive  writhings  of  her  fierce  spirit,  was 
shaken  the  external  placidity  of  her  demeanor.  Her 
voice  grew  more  gentle  —  grew  more  low  —  yet  I 
would  not  wish  to  dwell  upon  the  wild  meaning  of 
the  quietly  uttered  words.  My  brain  reeled  as  I 
hearkened,  entranced,  to  a  melody  more  than  mortal 
—  to  assumptions  and  aspirations  which  mortality  had 
never  before' known. 

That  she  loved  me  I  should  not  have  doubted  ;  and 
I  might  have  been  easily  aware  that,  in  a  bosom  such 
as  hers,  love  would  have  reigned  no  ordinary  passion. 
But  in  death  only  was  I  fully  impressed  with  the 
strength  of  her  affection.  For  long  hours,  detaining 
my  hand,  would  she  pour  out  before  me  the  over¬ 
flowing  of  a  heart  whose  more  than  passionate  devo¬ 
tion  amounted  to  idolatry.  How  had  I  deserved  to  be 
so  blessed  by  such  confessions  ?  how  had  I  deserved 
to  be  so  cursed  with  the  removal  of  my  beloved  in  the 
hour  of  her  making  them  ?  But  upon  this  subject  I 
cannot  bear  to  dilate.  Let  me  say  only,  that  in  Li- 
geia’s  more  than  womanly  abandonment  to  a  love,  alas  i 
all  unmerited,  all  unworthily  bestowed,  I  at  length 
recognized  the  principle  of  her  longing,  with  so  wildly 
earnest  a  desireT~fdi‘  the  “life  which  was  now  fleeing 


46 


LIGEIA 


SO  rapidly  away.  It  is  this  wild  longing,  it  is  this 
eager  vehemence  of  desire  for  life  —  hut  for  life,  that 
I  have  no  power  to  portray,  no  utterance  capable  of 
expressing. 

At  high  noon  of  the  night  in  which  she  departed, 
beckoning  me  peremptorily  to  her  side,  she  bade  me 
repeat  certain  verses  composed  by  herself  not  many 
days  before.  I  obeyed  her.  They  were  these  : 

Lo  !  ’tis  a  gala  night 

Within  the  lonesome  latter  years. 

An  angel  throng,  bewinged,  bedight 
In  veils,  and  drowned  in  tears, 

Sit  in  a  theatre  to  see 
A  play  of  hopes  and  fears, 

While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 
The  music  of  the  spheres. 

Mimes,  in  the  form  of  God  on  high, 

Mutter  and  mumble  low, 

And  hither  and  thither  fly  ; 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 
That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro. 

Flapping  from  out  their  condor  wings 
Invisible  Woe. 

V 

That  motley  drama  —  oh,  be  sure 
It  shall  not  be  forgot  I 


LIGEIA 


47 


With  its  Phantom  chased  for  evermore, 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not, 

Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 
To  the  self-same  spot ; 

And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin, 

And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 

But  see,  amid  the  mimic  rout 
A  crawling  shape  intrude: 

A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 
The  scenic  solitude  ! 

It  writhes  —  it  writhes  !  with  mortal  pangs 
The  mimes  become  its  food. 

And  seraphs  sob  at  vermin  fangs. 

In  human  gore  imbrued. 

Out  —  out  are  the  lights  —  out  all  1 
And  over  each  quivering  form 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall. 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm. 

While  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan. 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  “  Man,” 

And  its  hero,  the  Conqueror  Worm. 

0  God  !  ’’  half  shrieked  Ligeia,  leaping  to  her  feet 
and  extending  her  arms  aloft  with  a  spasmodic  move¬ 
ment,  as  I  made  an  end  of  these  lines  —  ‘^0  God !  0 
Divine  Father !  shall  these  things  be  undeviatingly 
so  ?  shall  this  conqueror  be  not  once  conquered  ?  Are 


48 


LIQEIA 


we  not  part  and  parcel  in  Thee  ?  Who  —  who  know-  j 
eth  the  mysteries  of  the  will  with  its  vigor  ?  ^  Man  I 

doth  not  yield  him  to  the  angels,  nor  unto  death 
\utterly,  save  only  through  the  weakness  of  his  feeble  '■ 
will/'’  ‘| 

And  now,  as  if  exhausted  with  emotion,  she  suffered 
her  white  arms  to  fall,  and  returned  solemnly  to  her 
bed  of  death.  And  as  she  breathed  her  last  sighs, 
there  came  mingled  wuth  them  a  low  murmur  from  her 
lips.  I  bent  to  them  my  ear,  and  distinguished,  again,  \ 
the  concluding  words  of  the  passage  in  Glanvill :  i 
“  Man  doth  yiot  yield  him  to  the  angels,  nor  unto  death  | 
utterly,  save  only  through  the  weakness  of  his  feeble  I 
wiliy  I 

She  died :  and  I,  crushed  into  the  very  dust  with  1 
sorrow,  could  no  longer  endure  the  lonely  desolation  | 
of  my  dwelling  in  the  dim  and  decaying  city  by  the 
Rhine.  I  had  no  lack  of  what  the  world  calls  wealth.  '! 
Ligeia  had  brought  me  far  more,  very  far  more,  than  ji 
ordinarily  falls  to  the  lot  of  mortals.  After  a  few 
months,  therefore,  of  weary  and  aimless  wandering,  I 
purchased,  and  put  in  some  repair,  an  abbey,  which  I 
shall  not  name,  in  one  of  the  wilde^  and  least  fre¬ 
quented  portions  of  fair  England,  ^he  gloomy  and  L 
dreary  grandeur  of  the  building,  tne  almost  savage 


LIGEIA 


49 


aspect  of  the  domain,  the  many  melancholy  and  time- 
honored  memories  connected  with  both,  had  much  in 
unison  with  the  feelings  of  utter  abandonment  which 
;  had  driven  me  into  that  remote  and  unsocial  region  of 

I  the  country.  Yet  although  the  external  abbey,  with 
ji  its  verdant  decay  hanging  about  it,  suffered  but  little 

I I  alteration,  I  gave  way  with  a  child-like  perversity,  and 
'  perchance  with  a  faint  hope  of  alleviating  my  sorrows, 

to  a  display  of  more  than  regal  magnificence  within. 
For  such  follies,  even  in  childhood,  I  had  imbibed  a 
taste,  and  now  they  came  back  to  me  as  if  in  the 
dotage  of  grief.  Alas,  I  feel  how  much  even  of  incipi¬ 
ent  madness  might  have  been  discovered  in  the  gor¬ 
geous  and  fantastic  drai^eries,  in  the  solemn  carvings 
of  Egypt,  in  the  wild  cornices  and  furniture,  in  the 
Bedlam  patterns  of  the  carpets  of  tufted  gold  !  I  had 
become  a  bounden  slave  in  the  trammels  of  opium, 
and  my  labors  and  my  orders  had  taken  a  coloring 
from  my  dreams.  But  these  absurdities  I  must  not 
pause  to  detail.  Let  me  speak  only  of  that  one  cham¬ 
ber  ever  accursed,  whither,  in  a  moment  of  mental 
alienation,  I  led  from  the  altar  as  my  bride  —  as  the 
successor  of  the  unforgotten  Ligeia  —  the  fair-haired 
and  blue-eyed  Lady  Bowena  Trevanion,  of  Tremaine. 

There  is  no  individual  portion  of  the  architecture 


E 


50 


LIQEIA 


and  decoration  of  that  bridal  chamber  which  is  not 
now  visibly  before  me.  Where  were  the  souls  of  the 
haughty  family  of  the  bride,  when,  through  thirst  of 
gold,  they  permitted  to  pass  the  threshold  of  an  apart¬ 
ment  so  bedecked,  a  maiden  and  a  daughter  so  be¬ 
loved  ?  I  have  said  that  I  minutely  remember  the 
details  of  the  chamber  —  yet  I  am  sadly  forgetful  on 
topics  of  deep  moment ;  and  here  there  was  no  system, 
no  keeping,  in  the  fantastic  display,  to  take  hold  upon 
the  memory.  The  room  lay  in  a  high  turret  of  the 
castellated  abbey,  was  pentagonal  in  shape,  and  of 
capacious  size.  Occupying  the  whole  southern  face  of 
the  pentagon  was  the  sole  window  —  an  immense  sheet 
of  unbroken  glass  from  Venice  —  a  single  pane,  and 
tinted  of  a  leaden  hue,  so  that  the  rays  of  either  the 
sun  or  moon,  passing  through  it,  fell  with  a  ghastly 
lustre  on  the  objects  within.  Over  the  upper  portion 
of  this  huge  window  extended  the  trellis-work  of  an 
aged  vine,  which  clambered  up  the  massy  walls  of  the 
turret.  The  ceiling,'  of  gloomy-looking  oak,  was  ex¬ 
cessively  lofty,  vaulted,  and  elaborately  fretted  with 
the  wildest  and  most  grotesque  specimens  of  a  semi- 
Gothic,  semi-Druidical  device.  Trom  out  the  most 
central  recess  of  this  melancholy  vaulting  depended, 
by  a  single  chain  of  gold  with  long  links,  a  huge 


I 

l! 

j 

I 


LIGEIA 


51 


censer  of  the  same  metal,  Saracenic  in  pattern,  and 
\  with  many  perforations  so  contrived  that  there  writhed 
in  and  out  of  them,  as  if  endued  with  a  serpent  vitality, 
a  continual  succession  of  party-colored  fires. 

I  Some  few  ottomans  and  golden  candelabra,  of  East- 
^  ern  figure,  were  in  various  stations  about;  and  there 
was  the  couch,  too  —  the  bridal  couch  —  of  an  Indian 
model,  and  low,  and  sculptured  of  solid  ebony,  with  a 
pall-like  canopy  above.  In  each  of  the  angles  of  the 
chamber  stood  on  end  a  gigantic  sarcophagus  of  black 
granite,  from  the  tombs  of  the  kings  over  against 
Luxor,  with  their  aged  lids  full  of  immemorial  sculp¬ 
ture.  But  in  the  draping  of  the  apartment  lay,  alas  ! 
the  chief  fantasy  of  all.  The  lofty  walls,  gigantic 
in  height,  even  unproportionably  so,  were  hung  from 
summit  to  foot,  in  vast  folds,  with  a  heavy  and 
massive-looking  tapestry  —  tapestry  of  a  material 
which  was  found  alike  as  a  carpet  on  the  floor,  as 
a  covering  for  the  ottomans  and  the  ebony  bed,  as 
a  canopy  for  the  bed,  and  as  the  gorgeous  volutes  of 
the  curtains  which  partially  shaded  the  window.  The 
material  was  the  richest  cloth  of  gold.  It  was 
spotted  all  over,  at  irregular  intervals,  with  arabesque 
figures,^  about  a  foot  in  diameter,  and  wrought  upon 
the  cloth  in  patterns  of  the  most  jetty  black.  But 


52 


LIGEIA 


1 


these  figures  partook  of  the  true  character  of  the  I 
arabesque  only  when  regarded  from  a  single  point  of  i' 
view.  By  a  contrivance  now  common,  and  indeed 
traceable  to  a  very  remote  period  of  antiquity,  they 
were  made  changeable  in  aspect.  To  one  entering  the  , 
room,  they  bore  the  appearance  of  simple  monstrosi-  i 
ties  j  but  upon  a  farther  advance,  this  appearance  I 
gradually  departed ;  and,  step  by  step,  as  the  visitor  j 
moved  his  station  in  the  chamber,  he  saw  himself 
surrounded  by  an  endless  succession  of  the  ghastly 
forms  which  belong  to  the  superstition  of  the  Nor¬ 
man,  or  arise  in  the  guilty  slumbers  of  the  monk,  i 
The  phantasmagoric  effect  was  vastly  heightened  by  i 
the  artificial  introduction  of  a  strong  continual  cur-  \ 
rent  of  wind  behind  the  draperies,  giving  a  hideous  i 
and  uneasy  animation  to  the  whole.  ,j 

In  halls  such  as  these,  in  a  bridal  chamber  such  as 
this,  I  passed,  with  the  Lady  of  Tremaine,  the  unhal-  ' 

lowed  hours  of  the  first  month  of  our  marriage _  'j 

passed  them  with  but  little  disquietude.  That  my  ? 
wife  dreaded  the  fierce  moodiness  of  my  temper —  -i 
that  she  shunned  me,  and  loved  me  but  little — I  1 
could  not  help  perceiving;  but  it  gave  me  rather  :| 
pleasure  than  otherwise.  I  loathed  her  with  a  hatred  ! 

I 

belonging  more  to  demon  than  to  man.  My  memory 


LIGEIA 


53 


iflew  back  (oh,  with  what  intensity  of  regret!)  to 
Ligeia,  the  beloved,  the  august,  the  beautiful,  the 
:  entombed.  I  revelled  in  recollections  of  her  purity, 

'  of  her  wisdom,  of  her  lofty,  her  ethereal  nature,  of 
I  her  passionate,  her  idolatrous  love.  Now,  then,  did 
1  my  spirit  fully  and  freely  burn  with  more  than  all 
i  the  fires  of  her  own.  In  the  excitement  of  my  opium 
dreams,  (for  I  was  habitually  fettered  in  the  shackles 
I  of  the  drug,)  I  would  call  aloud  upon  her  name,  during 
the  silence  of  the  night,  or  among  the  sheltered  re¬ 
cesses  of  the  glens  by  day,  as  if,  through  the  wild 
eagerness,  the  solemn  passion,  the  consuming  ardor  of 
my  longing  for  the  departed,  I  could  restore  her  to 
the  pathway  she  had  abandoned  —  ah,  could  it  be  for¬ 
ever  ?  —  upon  the  earth. 

About  the  commencement  of  the  second  month  of 
the  marriage,  the  Lady  Lowena  was  attacked  with 
sudden  illness,  from  which  her  recovery  was  slow. 
The  fever  which  consumed  her,  rendered  her  nights 
uneasy;  and  in  her  perturbed,  state  of  half-slumber, 
she  spoke  of  sounds,  and  of  motions,  in  and  about  the 
chamber  of  the  turret,  which  I  concluded  had  no 
origin  save  in  the  distemper  of  her  fancy,  or  perhaps 
in  the  phantasmagoric  influences  of  the  chamber  itself. 
She  became  at  length  convalescent — ^’finally,  well 


54 


LIGEIA 


Yet  but  a  brief  period  elapsed,  ere  a  second  more 
violent  disorder  again  threw  her  upon  a  bed  of  suffer¬ 
ing;  and  from  this  attack  her  frame,  at  all  times 
feeble,  never  altogether  recovered.  Her  illnesses  were, 
after  this  epoch,  of  alarming  character,  and  of  more 
alarming  recurrence,  defying  alike  the  knowledge  and 
the  great  exertions  of  her  physicians.  With  the 
increase  of  the  chronic  disease,  which  had  thus  appar- 
ently  taken  too  sure  hold  upon  her  constitution  to  be 
eradicated  by  human  means,  I  could  not  fail  to  ob¬ 
serve  a  similar  increase  in  the  nervous  irritation  of 
her  temperament,  and  in  her  excitability  by  trivial 
causes  of  fear.  She  spoke  again,  and  now  more  fre¬ 
quently  and  pertinaciously,  of  the  sounds  —  of  the 
slight  sounds  and  of  the  unusual  motions  among 
the  tapestries,  to  which  she  had  formerly  alluded. 

One  night,  near  the  closing  in  of  September,  she 
pressed  this  distressing  subject  w;th  more  than  usual 
emphasis  upon  my  attention.  She  had  just  awak¬ 
ened  fiom  an  unquiet  slumber,  and  I  had  been  watch- 
ing,  with  feelings  half  of  anxiety,  half  of  vague  terror, 
the  workings  of  her  emaciated  countenance.  I  sat  by 
the  side  of  her  ebony  bed,  upon  one  of  the  ottomans 
of  India.  She  partly  arose,  and  spoke,  in  an  earnest 
low  whisper,  of  sounds  which  she  then  heard,  but 


LIQEIA 


55 


? 


■  which  I  could  not  hear  —  of  motions  which  she  then 
saw,  but  which  I  could  not  perceive.  The  wind  was 
rushing  hurriedly  behind  the  tapestries,  and  I  wished 
to  show  her  (what,  let  me  confess  it,  I  could  not  all 
believe)  that  those  almost  inarticulate  breathings,  and 
those  very  gentle  variations  of  the  figures  upon  the 
wall,  were  but  the  natural  effects  of  that  customary 
rushing  of  the  wind.  But  a  deadly  pallor,  overspread¬ 
ing  her  face,  had  proved  to  me  that  my  exertions  to 
reassure  her  would  be  fruitless.  She  appeared  to  be 
fainting,  and  no  attendants  were  within  call.  I  re¬ 
membered  where  was  deposited  a  decanter  of  light 
wine  which  had  been  ordered  by  her  physicians,  and 
hastened  across  the  chamber  to  procure  it.  But,  as  I 
stepped  beneath  the  light  of  the  censer,  two  circum¬ 
stances  of  a  startling  nature  attracted  my  attention. 
I  had  felt  that  some  palpable  although  invisible  object 
had  passed  lightly  by  my  person;  and  I  saw  that 
there  lay  upon  the  golden  carpet,  in  the  very  middle 
of  the  rich  lustre  thrown  from  the  censer,  a  shadow — 
a  faint,  indefinite  shadow  of  angelic  aspect  —  such  as 
might  be  fancied  for  the  shadow  of  a  shade.  But  I 
was  wild  with  the  excitement  of  an  immoderate  dose 
of  opium,  and  heeded  these  things  but  little,  nor  spoke 
of  them  to  Eowena.  Having  found  the  wine,  I  re* 


56 


LIGEIA 


II 


crossed  the  chamber,  and  poured  out  a  gobletful,  which  j 
I  held  to  the  lips  of  the  fainting  lady.  She  had  now 
partially  recovered,  however,  and  took  the  vessel  her¬ 
self,  while  I  sank  upon  an  ottoman  near  me,  with  my 
eyes  fastened  upon  her  person.  It  was  then  that  I 
became  distinctly  aware  of  a  gentle  footfall  upon  the 
carpet,  and  near  the  couch;  and  in  a  second  there¬ 
after,  as  Eowena  was  in  the  act  of  raising  the  wine  to 
her  lips,  I  saw,  or  may  have  dreamed  that  I  saw,  fall 
within  the  goblet,  as  if  from  some  invisible  spring  in  i 
the  atmosphere  of  the  room,  three  or  four  large  drops 
of  a  brilliant  and  ruby-colored  fluid.  If  this  I  saw  — 
not  so  Eowena.  She  swallowed  the  wine  unhesitatingly, 
and  I  forbore  to  speak  to  her  of  a  circumstance  which  i 
must  after  all,  I  considered,  have  been  but  the  sugges-  > 
tion  of  a  vivid  imagination,  rendered  morbidly  active  | 
by  the  terror  of  the  lady,  by  the  opium,  and  by  the  ! 
hour. 

Yet  I  cannot  conceal  it  from  my  own  perception 
that,  immediately  subsequent  to  the  fall  of  the  ruby-  j 
drops,  a  rapid  change  for  the  worst  took  place  in  the  i 
disorder  of  my  wife ;  so  that,  on  the  third  subsequent  | 
night,  the  hands  of  her  menials  prepared  her  for  the  | 
tomb,  and  on  the  fourth,  I  sat  alone,  with  her  shrouded 
body,  in  that  fantastic  chamber  which  had  received  her  j 


V 


LIGEIA 


57 


as  my  bride.  Wild  visions,  opium-engendered,  flitted 
shadow-like  before  me.  I  gazed  with  unquiet  eye  upon 
the  sarcophagi  in  the  angles  of  the  room,  upon  the 
varying  figures  of  the  drapery,  and  upon  the  writhing 
of  the  party-colored  fires  in  the  censer  overhead.  My 
eyes  then  fell,  as  I  called  to  mind  the  circumstances 
of  a  former  night,  to  the  spot  beneath  the  glare  of  the 
censer  where  I  had  seen  the  faint  traces  of  the  shadow. 
It  was  there,  however,  no  longer ;  and  breathing  with 
greater  freedom,  I  turned  my  glances  to  the  pallid  and 
rigid  figure  upon  the  bed.  Then  rushed  upon  me  a 
thousand  memories  of  Ligeia  —  and  then  came  back 
upon  my  heart,  with  the  turbulent  violence  of  a  flood, 

I  the  whole  of  that  unutterable  woe  with  which  I  had 
regarded  her  thus  enshrouded.  The  night  waned ;  and 
still,  with  a  bosom  full  of  bitter  thoughts  of  the  one 
only  and  supremely  beloved,  I  remained  gazing  upon 
the  body  of  Rowena. 

It  might  have  been  midnight,  or  perhaps  earlier,  or 
later,  for  I  had  taken  no  note  of  time,  when  a  sob,  low, 
gentle,  but  very  distinct,  startled  me  from  my  revery. 
*  I  felt  that  it  came  from  the  bed  of  ebony  —  the  bed  of 
death.  I  listened  in  an  agony  of  superstitious  terror 
-^but  there  was  no  repetition  of  the  sound.  I  strained 
my  vision  to  detect  any  motion  in  the  corpse  —  but 


58 


LIGEIA 


there  was  not  the  slightest  perceptible.  Yet  I  could  ] 
not  have  been  deceived.  I  had  heard  the  noise,  how¬ 
ever  faint,  and  my  soul  was  awakened  within  me.  I 
resolutely  and  perseveringly  kept  my  attention  riveted  j 
upon  the  body.  Many  minutes  elapsed  before  any  cir¬ 
cumstance  occurred  tending  to  throw  light  upon  the 
mystery..  At  length  it  became  evident  that  a  slight, 
a  very  feeble,  and  barely  noticeable  tinge  of  color  had 
flushed  up  within  the  cheeks,  and  along  the  sunken 
small  veins  of  the  eyelids.  Through  a  species  of  un¬ 
utterable  horror  and  awe,  for  which  the  language  of 
mortality  has  no  sufliciently  energetic  expression,  I 
felt  my  heart  cease  to  beat,  my  limbs  grow  rigid 
where  I  sat.  Yet  a  sense  of  duty  Anally  operated  to 
restore  my  self-possession.  I  could  no  longer  doubt  i 
that  we  had  been  precipitate  in  our  preparations  — 
that  Rowena  still  lived.  It  was  necessary  that  some  ' 
immediate  exertion  be  made ;  yet  the  turret  was  alto¬ 
gether  apart  from  the  portion  of  the  abbey  tenanted 
by  the  servants  —  there  were  none  within  call  —  I 
had  no  means  of  summoning  them  to  my  aid  without 
leaving  the  room  for  many  minutes  —  and  this  I  could 
not  venture  to  do.  I  therefore  struggled  alone  in  my 
endeavors  to  call  back  the  spirit  still  hovering.  In  a 
short  period  it  was  certain,  however,  that  a  relapse 


I 


LIGEIA 


59 


i  had  taken  place ;  the  color  disappeared  from  both  eye¬ 
lid  and  cheek,  leaving  a  wanness  even  more  than  that 
of  marble;  the  lips  became  doubly  shrivelled  and 
]  pinched  up  in  the  ghastly  expression  of  death ;  a  re- 
)  pulsive  clamminess  and  coldness  overspread  rapidly 
the  surface  of  the  body;  and  all  the  usual  rigorous 
t  stiffness  immediately  supervened.  I  fell  back  with  a 
shudder  upon  the  couch  from  which  I  had  been  so 
startlingly  aroused,  and  again  gave  myself  up  to 
passionate  waking  visions  of  Ligeia. 

An  hour  thus  elapsed,  when  (could  it  be  possible  ?) 
I  was  a  second  time  aware  of  some  vague  sound  issu¬ 
ing  from  the  region  of  the  bed.  I  listened  —  in  ex¬ 
tremity  of  horror.  The  sound  came  again  —  it  was  a 
sigh.  Bushing  to  the  corpse,  I  saw  —  distinctly  saw 

_ a  tremor  upon  the  lips.  In  a  minute  afterwards 

they  relaxed,  disclosing  a  bright  line  of  the  pearly 
teeth.  Amazement  now  struggled  in  my  bosom  witk 
the  profound  awe  which  had  hitherto  reigned  there 
alone.  I  felt  that  my  vision  grew  dim,  that  my  rea¬ 
son  wandered ;  and  it  was  only  by  a  violent  effort  that 
I  at  length  succeeded  in  nerving  myself  to  the  task 
which  duty  thus  once  more  had  pointed  out.  There 
was  now  a  partial  glow  upon  the  forehead  and  upon 
the  cheek  and  throat ;  a  perceptible  warmth  pervaded 


< 


60 


LIGEIA 


the  whole  frame ;  there  was  even  a  slight  pulsation  at  | 
the  heart.  The  lady  lived;  and  with  redoubled  ardor  j 
I  betook  myself  to  the  task  of  restoration.  I  chafed  ; 
and  bathed  the  temples  and  the  hands,  and  used  ' 
every  exertion  which  experience,  and  no  little  medical  ' 
reading,  could  suggest.  But  in  vain.  Suddenly,  the  t 
color  fled,  the  pulsation  ceased,  the  lips  resumed 
the  expression  of  the  dead,  and,  in  an  instant 
afterward,  the  whole  body  took  upon  itself  the  icy 
chilliness,  the  livid  hue,  the  intense  rigidity,  the 
sunken  outline,  and  all  the  loathsome  peculiarities 
of  that  which  has  been,  for  many  days,  a  tenant  of 
the  tomb. 

And  again  I  sunk  into  visions  of  Ligeia  —  and 
again,  (what  marvel  that  I  shudder  while  I  write  ?) 
again  there  reached  my  ears  a  low  sob  from  the  region 
of  the  ebony  bed.  But  why  shall'  I  minutely  detail 
.  the  unspeakable  horrors  of  that  night  ?  Why  shall  I 
pause  to  relate  how,  time  after  time,  until  near  the 
period  of  the  gray  dawn,  this  hideous  drama  of  revivi¬ 
fication  was  repeated;  how  each  terrific  relapse  was 
only  into  a  sterner  and  apparently  more  irredeemable 
death ;  how  each  agony  wore  the  aspect  of  a  struggle 
with  some  invisible  foe ;  and  how  each  struggle  was 
succeeded  by  I  know  not  what  of  wild  change  in  the 


j 


1. 


61 


LIGEIA 

personal  appearance  of  the  corpse  ?  Let  me  hurry  to 
a  conclusion. 

The  greater  part  of  the  fearful  night  had  worn  away, 
and  she  who  had  been  dead,  once  again  stirred  —  and 
now  more  vigorously  than  hitherto,  although  arousing 
from  a  dissolution  more  appalling  in  its  utter  helpless¬ 
ness  than  any.  I  had  long  ceased  to  struggle  or  to 
move,  and  remained  sitting  rigidly  upon  the  ottoman, 
a  helpless  prey  to  a  whirl  of  violent  emotions,  of 
which  extreme  awe  was  perhaps  the  least  terrible,  the 
least  consuming.  The  corpse,  I  repeat,  stirred,  and 
now  more  vigorously  than  before.  The  hues  of  life 
flushed  up  with  unwonted  energy  into  the  counte¬ 
nance —  the  limbs  relaxed  —  and,  save  that  the  eye¬ 
lids  were  yet  pressed  heavily  together,  and  that  the 
bandages  and  draperies  of  the  grave  still  imparted 
their  charnel  character  to  the  figure,  I  might  have 
dreamed  that  Howena  had  indeed  shaken  olf,  utterly, 
the  fetters  of  Death.  But  if  this  idea  was  not,  even 
then,  altogether  adopted,  I  could  at  least  doubt  no 
longer,  when,  arising  from  the  bed,  tottering,  with 
feeble  steps,  with  closed  eyes,  and  with  the  manner 
of  one  bewildered  in  a  dream,  the  thing  that  was 
enshrouded  advanced  bodily  and  palpably  into  the 
middle  of  the  apartment. 


62 


LIGEIA 


I  tremblGd  not —  I  stirred  not  —  for  a  crowd  of  un-  j 
utterable  fancies  connected  with  the  air,  the  stature,  j 
the  demeanor  of  the  figure,  rushing  hurriedly  through 
my  brain,  had  paralyzed  —  had  chilled  me  into  stone. 

I  stirred  not  —  but  gazed  upon  the  apparition.  There 
was  a  mad  disorder  in  my  thoughts  —  a  tumult  un¬ 
appeasable.  Could  it,  indeed,  be  the  living  Rowena 
who  confronted  me  ?  Could  it  indeed  be  Rowena  at  \ 
all  —  the  fair-haired,  the  blue-eyed*  Lady  Rowena 
Trevanion  of  Tremaine  ?  Why,  why  should  I  doubt 
it  ?  The  bandage  lay  heavily  about  the  mouth  —  but  i; 
then  might  it  not  be  the  mouth  of  the  breathing  Lady 
of  Tremaine  ?  And  the  cheeks  —  there  were  the  roses  { 

as  in  her  noon  of  life  —  yes,  these  might  indeed  be  ' 

Y/  the  fair  cheeks  of  the  living  Lady  of  Tremaine.  ^ 

And  the  chin,  with  its  dimples,  as  in  health,  might 
it  not  be  hers  ?  but  had  she  then  grown  taller  since  her 
malady  ^  What  inexpressible  madness  seized  me  | 

with  that  thought  ?  One  bound,  and  I  had  reached  | 

her  feet!  Shrinking  from  my  touch,  she  let  fall  | 

from  her  head  the  ghastly  cerements  which  had  | 

confined  it,  and  there  streamed  forth,  into  the  rush-  Jj; 

ing  atmosphere  of  the  chamber,  huge  masses  of  long  j 

and  dishevelled  hair ;  it  was  blacker  than  the  wings  oj  I' 

the  midnight !  And  now  slowly  opened  the  eyes  of  | 


LIGEIA 


63 


the  figure  which  stood  before  me.  ^‘Here  then,  at 
least,”  I  shrieked  aloud,  ^‘can  I  never  —  can  I  never 
be  mistaken  —  these  are  the  full,  and  the  black,  and 
the  wild  eyes — of  my  lost  love  —  of  the  Lady  —  of 
the  Lady  Ligeia.” 


4 

j 


SILENCE  — A  FABLE*  j 

EuSovo’tj'  S  opioiv  Kopv<^t  T€  KoX  <pdpayy€Sf 

Uptoove's  TC  Kal  xo^pa^paL. 

Alcman:  60  [10]  646. 

Tho  mountain  pinnacles  slumber  j  valleys,  crags,  and  caves 
are  silent.  \ 

'^Listen  to  me,”  said  the  Demon,  as  he  placed  his  j 
hand  upon  my  head.  ^^The  region  of  which  I  speak 
is  a  dreary  region  in  Libya,  by  the  borders  of  the  river 
Zaire.  And  there  is  no  quiet  there,  nor  silence. 

The  waters  of  the  river  have  a  saffron  and  sickly 
hue ;  and  they  flow  not  onward  to  the  sea,  but  palpi¬ 
tate  forever  and  forever  beneath  the  red  eye  of  the  ‘ 
sun  with  a  tumii^uous  and  convulsive  motion.  For 
many  miles  on  either  side  of  the  river^s  oozy  bed  is 
a  pale  desert  of  gigantic  water-lilies.  They  sigh  one  1 
unto  the  other  in  that  solitude,  and  stretch  towards  • 
the  heaven  their  long  and  ghastly  necks,  and  nod  to  ’ 
and  fro  their  everlasting  heads.  And  there  is  an  in¬ 
distinct  murmur  which  cometh  out  from  among  them 

♦  By  permission  of  H.  S.  Stone  &  Co. 

64 


'.1 


SILENCE — A  FABLE 


65 


like  the  rushing  of  subterrene  water.  And  they  sigh 
one  unto  the  other. 

“But  there  is  a  boundary  to  their  realm  —  the 
boundary  of  the  dark,  horrible,  lofty  forest.  There, 
like  the  waves  about  the  liat^ides,  the  low  under¬ 
wood  is  agitated  continually.  But  there  is  no  wind 
throughout  the  heaven.  And  the  tall  primeval  trees 
rock  eternally  hither  and  l^ither  with  a  crashing  and 
mighty  sound.  And  from  their  high  summits,  one  by 
one,  drop  everlasting  dews.  And  at  the  roots  strange 
poisonous  flowers  lie  wnthing  in  perturbed  slumber. 
And  overhead,  with  a  rustling  and  loud  noise,  the 
gray  clouds  rush  westwardly  forever,  until  they  roll> 
a  cataract,  over  the  fiery  wall  of  the  horizon.  But 
there  is  no  wind  throughout  the  heaven.  And  by  the 
shores  of  the  river  Zaire  there  is  neither  quiet  nor 

silence. 

“  It  was  night,  and  the  rain  fell ;  and,  falling,  it  was 
rain,  but  having  fallen,  it  was  blood.  And  I  stood  in 
the  morass  among  the  tall  lilies,  and  the  rain  fell  upon 
my  head  — and  the  lilies  sighed  one  unto  the  other  in 

the  soWlnity  of  their  desolation. 

“  And7  all  at  once,  the  moon  arose  through  the  thin 
ghastly  mist,  and  was  crimson  in  color.  And  mine 
eyes  fell  upon  a  huge  gray  rock  which  stood  by  the 


66 


SILENCE  —  A  FABLE 


shore  of  the  river,  and  was  lighted  by  the  light  of  the  | 
moon.  And  the  rock  was  gray,  and  ghastly,  and  tall,  » 
and  the  rock  was  gray.  Upon  its  front  were  char-  • 
acters  engraven  in  the  stone ;  and  I  walked  through 
the  morass  of  water-lilies,  until  I  came  close  unto  the 
shore,  that  I  might  read  the  characters  upon  the  stone. 

But  I  could  not  decipher  them.  And  I  was  going 
back  into  the  morass,  when  the  moon  shone  with  a 
fuller  red,  and  I  turned  and  looked  again  upon  the  I 
rock,  and  upon  the  characters  ^  —  and  the  characters  - 
were  desolation.  ; 

*  I 

“And  I  looked  upwards,  and  there  stood  a  man  1 
upon  the  summit  of  the  rock;  and  I  hid  myself  among  ' 
the  water-lilies  that  I  might  discover  the  actions  of  the 
man.  And  the  man  was  tall  and  stately  in  form,  and 
was  wrapped  up  from  his  shoulders  to  his  feet  in  the 
toga  of  old  Borne.  And  the  outlines  of  his  figure 
were  indistinct  —  but  his  features  were  the  features 
of  a  deity ;  for  the  mantle  of  the  night,  and  of  the  ' 
mist,  and  of  the  moon,  and  of  the  dew,  had  left  uncov-  i 
ered  the  features  of  his  face.  And  his  .brow  was  lofty  j 
with  thought,  and  his  eye  wild  with  care;  and  in  the 
few  furrows  upon  his  cheek  I  read  the  fables  of  sor¬ 
row,  and  weariness,  and  disgust  with  mankind,  and  a  j 
longing  after  solitude. 


SILENCE — A  FABLE 


67 


“And  the  man  sat  upon  the  rock,  and  leaned  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  and  looked  out  upon  the  desola¬ 
tion.  He  looked  down  into  the  low,  unquiet  shrub¬ 
bery,  and  up  into  the  tall  primeval  trees,  and  up 
higher  at  the  rustling  heaven,  and  into  the  crimson 
moon.  And  I  lay  close  within  shelter  of  the  lilies, 
and  observed  the  actions  of  the  man.  And  the  man 

flb 

trembled  in  the  solitude ;  —  but  the  night  waned,  and 
I  he  sat  upon  the  rock. 

“  And  the  man  turned  his  attention  from  the  heaven, 
and  looked  out  upon  the  dreary  river  Zaire,  and  upon 
the  yellow  ghastly  waters,  and  upon  the  pale  legions 
of  the  water-lilies.  And  the  man  listened  to  the  sighs 
of  the  water-lilies,  and  to  the  murmur  that  came  up 
from  among  them.  And  I  lay  close  within  my  covert 
and  observed  the  actions  of  the  man.  And  the  man 
trembled  in  the  solitude ;  —  but  the  night  waned,  and 
he  sat  upon  the  rock. 

“  Then  I  went  down  into  the  recesses  of  the  morass, 
and  waded  afar  in  among  the  wilderness  of  the  lilies 
and  called  unto  the  hippopotami  which  dwelt  among 
the  fens  in  the  recesses  of  the  morass.  And  the  hip¬ 
popotami  heard  my  call,  and  came,  with  the  b^emoth, 
unto  the  foot  of  the  rock,  and  roared  loudly  and  fear¬ 
fully  beneath  the  moon.  And  I  lay  close  within  my 


68 


SILENCE  —  A  FABLE 


covert  and  observed  the  actions  of  the  man.  And  the  i 
man  trembled  in  the  solitude ;  —  but  the  night  waned,  ‘ 
and  he  sat  upon  the  rock. 

‘‘Then  I  cursed  the  elements  with  the  curse  of 
tumult;  and  a  frightful  tempest  gathered  in  the 
heaven,  where  before  there  had  been  no  wind.  And  I 
the  heaven  became  livid  with  the  violence  of  the  tem¬ 
pest —  and  the  rain  beat  upon  the  head  of  the  man  — 
and  the  floods  of  the  river  came  down  —  and  the  river 
was  tormented  into  foam — and  the  water-lilies  shrieked 
within  their  beds — and  the  forest  crumbled  before  the  ' 
wind  —  and  the  thunder  rolled  —  and  the  lightning  ; 
fell  —  and  the  rock  rocked  to  its  foundation.  And  I 
lay  close  within  my  covert  and  observed  the  actions  of 
the  man.  And  the  man  trembled  in  the  solitude ;  — 
but  the  night  waned,  and  he  sat  upon  the  rock. 

“  Then  I  grew  angry  and  cursed,  with  the  curse  of 
silence,  the  river,  and  the  lilies,  and  the  wind,  and  the 
forest,  and  the  heaven,  and  the  thunder,  and  the  sighs 
of  the  water-lilies.  And  they  became  accursed,  and 
were  still.  And  the  moon  ceased  to  totter  up  its  path¬ 
way  to  heaven  —  and  the  thunder  died  away  —  and  ; 
the  lightning  did  not  flash  —  and  the  clouds  hung  J 
motionless  —  and  the  waters  sunk  to  their  level  and  j 
remained  —  and  the  trees  ceased  to  rock  —  and  the  J 


SILENCE — A  FABLE 


69 


water-lilies  sighed  no  more  — and  the  murmur  was 
I  heard  no  longer  from  among  them,  nor  any  shadow  of 
j  sound  throughout  the  vast  ill\mi^able  deseit.  And  I 
'  looked  upon  the  characters  of  the  rock,  and  they  were 
:  changed ;  —  and  the  characters  were  silence. 

“  And  mine  eyes  fell  upon  the  countenance  of  the 
1  man,  and  his  countenance  was  wOn  with  terror.  And, 

1  hurriedly,  he  raised  his  head  from  his  hand,  and  stood 
forth  upon  the  rock  and  listened.  But  there  was  no 
voice  throughout  the  vast  illimitole  desert,  and  the 
.  characters  upon  the  rock  were  silence.  And  the  man 
shuddered,  and  turned  his  face  away,  and  fled  afar  off, 
in  haste,  so  that  I  beheld  him  no  more.” 

******** 

Now  there  are  flne  tales  in  the  volumes  of  the  Magi 

_ in  the  iron-bound,  melancholy  volumes  of  the  Magi. 

Therein,  I  say,  are  glorious  histories  of  the  Heaven, 
and  of  the  Earth,  and  of  the  mighty  Sea  — and  of  the 
Genii  that  overruled  the  sea,  and  the  earth,  and  the 
lofty  heaven.  There  was  much  lore  too  in  the  sayings 
which  were  said  by  the  Sibyls  ;  and  holy,  holy  things 
were  heard  of  old  by  the  dim  leaves  that  trembled 
around  Dodona  —  but,  as  Allah  liveth,  that  fable 
which  the  Demon  told  me,  as  he  sat  by  my  side  in 
the  shadow  of  the  tomb,  I  hold  to  be  the  most  wonder- 


70 


SILENCE — A  FABLE 


ful  of  all !  And  as  the  Demon  made  an  end  of  his 
story,  he  fell  back  within  the  cavity  of  the  tomb  and 
laughed.  And  I  could  not  laugh  with  the  Demon, 
and  he  cursed  me  because  I  could  not  laugh.  And 
the  lynx,  which  dwelleth  forever  in  the  tomb,  came 
out  therefrom,  and  lay  down  at  the  feet  of  the  Demon, 
and  looked  at  him  steadily  in  the  face. 


I 


i 


I  • 


•0 


/ 


llTHE  MASQUE  OP  THE  RED  DEATH* 


I 

(northern  Italy) 


The  “  Eed  Death  ”  had  long  -devastated  the  coun- 
ttry:  No  pestilence  had  ever  “been  so  fatal,  or  so  hid- 
( eons.  Blood  was  its  avatar  and  its  seal  —  the  redness 
and  the  horror  of  blood.  There  were  sharp  pains,  and 
sudden  dizziness,  and  then  profuse  bleeding  at  the 
]  pores,  with  dissolution.  The  scarlet  stains  upon  the 
1  body,  and  especially  upon  the  face,  of  the  victim  were 
I  the  pest  ban  which  shut  him  out  from  the  aid  and 
from  the  sympathy  of  his  fellow-men.  And  the  whole 
I  seizure,  progress,  and  termination  of  the  disease  were 
the  incidents  of  half  an  hour. 

But  the  Prince  Prospero  was  happy  and  dauntless 
and  sagacious.  When  his  dominions  were  half  de¬ 
populated,  he  summoned  to  his  presence  a  thousand 
hale  and  light-hearted  friends  from  among  the  knights 
and  dames  of  his  court,  and  with  these  retired  to  the 
deep  seclusion  of  one  of  his  castellated  abbeys.  This 
was  an  extensive  and  magnificent  structure,  the  crea- 


*  By  permission  of  H.  S.  Stone  &  Co. 


71 


72  THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  RED  D^ATH  ; 

tion  of  the  Prince’s  own  eccentric  yet  august  taste.  ! 
A  strong  and  lofty  wall  girdled  it  in.  This  wall  had  ' 
gates  of  iron.  The  courtiers,  having  entered,  brought  | 
furnaces  and  massy  hammers,  and  welded  the  bolts,  i 
They  resolved  to  leave  means  neither  of  ingress  or 
egress  to  the  sudden  impulses  of  despair  or  of  frenzy 
from  within.  The  abbey  was  amply  provisioned. 
With  such  precautions  the  courtiers  might  bid  defi¬ 
ance  to  contagion.  The  external  world  could  take 
care  of  itself.  In  the  meantime  it  was  folly  to  grieve, 
or  to  think.  The  Prince  had  provided  all  the  appli¬ 
ances  of  pleasure.  There  were  buffoons,  there  were  ’ 
improvisator!,  there  were  ballet-dancers,  there  were 
musicians,  there  was  Beauty,  there  was  wine.  All 
these  and  security  were  within.  Without  was  the  1 

Bed  Death.”  , 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  the  fifth  or  sixth  month 
of  his  seclusion,  and  while  the  pestilence  raged  most 
furiously  abroad,  that  the  Prince  Prospero  entertained 
his  thousand  friends  at  a  masked  ball  of  the  most  - 
unusual  magnificence. 

It  was  a  voluptuous  scesne,  that  masquerade.  But 
first  let  me  tell  of  the  rocms  in  which  it  was  held. 
There  were  seven — an  imperial  suite.  In  many  pal¬ 
aces,  however,  such  suites  form  a  long  and  straight  ' 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  RED  DEATH  73 

vista/j  wliilG  tli6  folding-doors  slido  l)a<cli  noa/rly  to  tli6 
walls  on  either  hand,  so  that  the  view  of  the  whole 
extent  is  scarcely  impeded.  Here  the  case  was  very 
different,  as  might  have  been  expected  from  the 
1  Prince’s  love  of  the  bizarre.  The  apartments  were  so 
i  irregularly  disposed  that  the  vision  embraced  but  little 
1  more  than  one  at  a  time.  There  was  a  sharp  turn  at 
every  twenty  or  thirty  yards,  and  at  each  turn  a  novel 
effect.  To  the  right  and  left,  in  the  middle  of  each 
wall,  a  tall  and  narrow  Gothic  window  looked  out  upon 
a  closed  corridor  which  pursued  the  windings  of  the 
suite.  These  windows  were  of  stained  glass,  whose 
1  color  varied  in  accordance  with  the  prevailing  hue  of 
the  decorations  of  the  chamber  into  which  it  opened. 
That  at  the  eastern  extremity  was  hung,  for  example, 
in  blue  —  and  vividly  blue  were  its  windows.  The  sec-  ^ 
ond  chamber  was  purple  in  its  ornaments  and  tapestries, 
and  here  the  panes  were  purple.  The  third  was  green 
throughout,  and  so  were  the  casements.  The  fourth 
was  furnished  and  lighted  with  orange,  the  fifth  with 
white,  the  sixth  with  violet.  The  seventh  apartment 
was  closely  shrouded  in  black  velvet  tapestries  that 
hung  all  over  the  ceiling  and  down  the  walls,  falling 
in  heavy  folds  upon  a  carpet  of  the  same  material  ^and 
hue.  But,  in  this  chamber  only,  the  color  of  the  win- 


74 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE^  RED  DEATH 


dows  failed  to  correspond  with  the  decorations.  The  j ' 
panes  here  were  scarlet  —  a  deep  blood-color.  Now  I ' 
in  no  one  of  the  seven  apartments  was  there  any  lamp  \ ' 
or  candelabrum,  amid  the  profusion  of  golden  orna¬ 
ments  that  lay  scattered  to  and  fro  or  depended  from 
the  roof.  There  was  no  light  of  any  kind  emanating  | 
from  lamp  or  candle  within  the  suite  of  chambers. 
But  in  the  corridors  that  followed  the  suite  there 
stood,  opposite  to  each  window,  a  heavy  tripod,  bear-  ^ 
ing  a  brazier  of  fire,  that  projected  its  rays  through  ^ 
the  tinted  glass  and  so  glaringly  illumined  the  room. 
And  thus  were  produced  a  multitude  of  gaudy  and  t 
fantastic  appearances.  But  in  the  western  or  black  j 
chamber  the  effect  of  the  firelight  that  streamed  upon 
the  dark  hangings  through  the  blood-tinted  panes  was 
ghastly  in  the  extreme,  and  produced  so  wild  a  look 
upon  the  countenances  of  those  who  entered  that  there 
were  few  of  the  company  bold  enough  to  set  foot  : 
within  its  precincts  at  all. 

It  was  in  this  apartment,  also,  that  there  stood  j 
against  the  western  wall  a  gigantic  clock  of  ebony. 

Its  pendulum  swung  to  and  fro  with  a  dull,  heavy, 
monotonous  clang;  and  when  the  minute-hand  made 
the  circuit  of  the  face,  and  the  hour  was  to  be  stricken, 
there  came  from  the  brazen  lungs  of  the  clock  a  sound  ^ 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  RED  DEATH  75 

which  was  clear  and(^  loud  and  deep  and  exceedingly 
musical,  but  of  so  peculiar  a  note  and  emphasis  that, 
at  each  lapse  of  an  hour,  the  musicians  of  the  orches¬ 
tra  were  constrained  to  pause,  momentarily,  in  their 
performance,  to  hearken  to  the  sound ;  and  thus  the 
I  waltzers  perforce  ceased  their  evolutions ;  and  there 
was  a  brief  disconcert  of  the  whole  gay  company ;  and, 
while  the  chimes  of  the  clock  yet  rang,  it  was  observed 
that  the  giddiest  grew  pale,  and  the  more  aged  and 
sedate  passed  their  hands  over  their  brows  as  if  in 
confused  revery  or  meditation.  But  when  the  echoes 
had  fully  ceased,  a  light  laughter  at  once  pervaded 
the  assembly ;  the  musicians  looked  at  each  other 
and  smiled  as  if  at  their  own  nervousness  and  folly, 
and  made  whispering  vows,  each  to  the  other,  that  the 
next  chiming  of  the  clock  should  produce  in  them  no 
similar  emotion ;  and  then,  after  the  lapse  of  sixty 
I  minutes  (which  embrace  three  thousand  and  six  hun¬ 
dred  seconds  of  the  Time  that  flies)  there  came  yet 
another  chiming  of  the  clock,  and  then  were  the  same 
disconcert  and  tremulousness  and  meditation  as  be- 
*  fore. 

But,  in  spite  of  these  things,  it  was  a  gay  and  mag¬ 
nificent  revel.  The  tastes  of  the  Prince  were  peculiar. 
He  had  a  fine  eye  for  colors  and  effects.  He  disre- 


76 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  RED  DEATH 


garded  the  decora  of  mere  fashion.  His  plans  were  1 
bold  and  fiery,  and  his  conceptions  glowed  with  bar-  ^ 
baric  lustre.  There  are  some  who  would  have  thought  .1 
him  mad.  His  followers  felt  that  he  was  not.  It  .1 
was  necessary  to  hear  and  see  and  touch  him  to  be 
sure  that  he  was  not. 

He  had  directed,  in  great  part,  the  movable  em¬ 
bellishments  of  the  seven  chambers,  upon  occasion  of 
this  great  fite-;  and  it  was  his  own  guiding  taste 
which  had  given  character  to  the  masqueraders.  Be 
sure  they  were  grotesque.  There  were  much  glare  . 
and  glitter  and  piquancy  and  phantasm  —  much  of  i 
what  has  been  since  seen  in  Hernani.  There  were  j 
arabesque  figures  with  unsuited  limbs  and  appoint-  ■ 
ments.  There  were  delirious  fancies  such  as  the  mad¬ 
man  fashions.  There  was  much  of  the  beautiful,  ; 
much  of  the  wanton,  much  of  the  bizarre,  something 
of  the  terrible,  and  not  a  little  of  that  which  might 
have  excited  disgust.  To  and  fro  in  the  seven  cham-  ! 
bers  there  stalked,  in  fact,  a  multitude  of  dreams. 
And  these  —  the  dreams  —  writhed  in  and  about, 
taking  hue.  from  the  rooms,  and  causing  the  wild 
music  of  the  orchestra  to  seem  as  the  echo  of  their  1 
steps.  And,  anon,  there  strikes  the  ebony  clock  | 
which  stands  in  the  hall  of  the  velvet.  And  then,  for  i 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  RED  DEATH  77 

a  nioni6nt,  all  is  still,  and  all  is  silent  save  the  voice  of 
I  the  clock.  The  dreams  are  stiff-frozen  as  they  stand, 
j  But  the  echoes  of  the  chime  die  away  —  they  have 
:  endured  but  an  instant  —  and  a  light,  half-subdued 
;  laughter  floats  after  them  as  they  depart.  And  now 
again  the  music  swells,  and  the  dreams  live,  and  writhe 
to  and  fro  more  merrily  than  ever,  taking  hue  from  the 
many  tinted  windows  through  which  stream  the  rays 
from  the  tripods.  But  to  the  chamber  which  lies 
most  westwardly  of  the  seven,  there  are  now  none  of 
the  maskers  who  venture  j  for  the  night  is  waning 
away,  and  there  flows  a  ruddier  light  through  the 
blood-colored  panes  ;  and  the  blackness  of  the  sable 
drapery  appalls ;  and  to  him  whose  foot  falls  upon  the 
sable  carpet,  there  comes  from  the  near  clock  of  ebony 
a  muffled  peal  more  solemnly  emphatic  than  any 
which  reaches  their  ears  who  indulge  in  the  more 
remote  gayeties  of  the  other  apartments. 

But  these  other  apartments  were  densely  crowded, 
and  in  them  beat  feverishly  the  heart  of  life.  And 
the  revel  went  whirlingly  on,  until  at  length  there 
commenced  the  sounding  of  midnight  upon  the  clock. 
And  then  the  music  ceased,  as  I  have  told;  and  the 
evolutions  of  the  waltzers  were  quieted ;  and  there 
was  an  uneasy  cessation  of  all  things  as  before.  But 


78 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  RED  DEATH 


now  there  were  twelve  strokes  to  be  sounded  by  the 
bell  of  the  clock;  and  thus  it  happened,  perhaps, 
that  more  of  thought  crept,  with  more  of  time,  into 
the  meditations  of  the  thoughtful  among  those  who 
revelled.  And  thus  too  it  happened,  perhaps,  that  be¬ 
fore  the  last  echoes  of  the  last  chime  had  utterly  sunk 
into  silence,  there  were  many  individuals  in  the  crowd 
who  had  found  leisure  to  become  aware  of  the  pres¬ 
ence  of  a  masked  figure  which  had  arrested  the  atten¬ 
tion  of  no  single  individual  before.  And  the  rumor 
of  this  new  presence  having  spread  itself  whisperingly 
around,  there  arose  at  length  from  the  whole  company 
a  buzz,  or  murmur,  expressive  of  disapprobation  and 
surprise  —  then,  finally,  of  terror,  of  horror,  and  of 
disgust. 

In  an  assembly  of  phantasms  such  as  I  have 
painted,  it  may  well  be  supposed  that  no  ordinary 
appearance  could  have  excited  such  sensation.  In 
truth  the  masquerade  license  of  the  night  was  nearly 
unlimited ;  but  the  figure  in  question  had  out-Heroded 
Herod,  and  gone  beyond  the  bounds  of  even  the 
Prince’s  indefinite  decorum.  There  are  chords  in 
the  hearts  of  the  most  reckless  which  cannot  be 
touched  without  emotion.  Even  with  the  utterly 
lost,  to  whom  life  and  death  are  equally  jests,  there 


I 


E 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  RED  DEATH 


79 


are  matters  of  v/hich  no  jest  can  be  made.  The  whole 
company,  indeed,  seemed  now  deeply  to  feel  that  in  the 
costume  and  bearing  of  the  stranger  neither  wit  nor 
propriety  existed.  The  figure  was  tall  and  gaunt,  and 
shrouded  from  head  to  foot  in  the  habiliments  of  the 
grave.  The  mask  which  concealed  the  visage  was 
made  so  nearly  to  resemble  the  countenance  of  a  stiff¬ 
ened  corpse  that  the  closest  scrutiny  must  have  had 
difficulty  in  detecting  the  cheat.  And  yet  all  this 
might  have  been  endured,  if  not  approved,  by  the  mad 
revellers  around.  But  the  mummer  had  gone  so  far 
as  to  assume  the  type  of  the  Bed  Death.  His  vesture  * 
was  dabbled  in  blood  —  and  his  broad  brow,  with  all 
the  features  of  the  face,  was  besprinkled  with  the 
scarlet  horror. 

When  the  eyes  of  Prince  Prospero  fell  upon  this 
spectral  image  (which  with  a  slow  and  solemn  move¬ 
ment,  as  if  more  fully  to  sustain  its  rdle,  stalked  to 
and  fro  among  the  waltzers)  he  was  seen  to  be  con¬ 
vulsed,  in  the  first  moment,  with  a  strong  shudder 
either  of  terror  or  distaste ;  but,  in  the  next,  his  brow 
reddened  with  rage. 

“  Who  dares  ?  ”  he  demanded  hoarsely  of  the  cour¬ 
tiers  who  stood  near  him  —  who  dares  insult  us  with 
this  blasphemous  mockery  ?  Seize  him  and  unmask 


80 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  RED  DEATH 


him  —  that  we  may  know  whom  we  have  to  hang  at  > 
sunrise,  from  the  battlements  !  ” 

It  was  in  the  eastern  or  blue  chamber  in  which 
stood  the  Prince  Prospero  as  he  uttered  these  words. 
They  rang  throughout  the  seven  rooms  loudly  and 
clearly  for  the  Prince  was  a  bold  and  robust  man, 
and  the  music  had  become  hushed  at  the  waving  of 
his  hand. 

It  was  in  the  blue  room  where  stood  the  Prince, 
with  a  group  of  pale  courtiers  by  his  side.  At  first, 
as  he  spoke,  there  was  a  slight  rushing  movement  of  ' 
this  group  in  the  direction  of  the  intruder,  who  at  the 
moment  was  also  near  at  hand,  and  now,  with  delib-  ' 
erate  and  stately  step,  made  closer  approach  to  the 
speaker.  But  from  a  certain  nameless  awe  with 
which  the  mad  assumptions  of  the  mummer  had  in-  I 
spired  the  whole  party,  there  were  found  none  who 
put  forth  hand  to  seize  him ;  so  that,  unimpeded,  he  I 
passed  within  a  yard  of  the  Prince’s  person;  and  i 
while  the  vast  assembly,  as  if  with  one  impulse,  I 
shrank  from  the  centres  of  the  rooms  to  the  walls,  he  I 
made  his  way  uninterruptedly,  but  with  the  same  ! 
solemn  and  measured  step  which  had  distinguished  i 
him  from  the  first,  through  the  blue  chamber  to  the  | 
purple  —  through  the  purple  to  the  green  —  through  | 


9 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  RED  DEATH 


81 


;the  green  to  the  orange  —  through  this  again  to  the 
white  —  and  even  thence  to  the  violet,  ere  a  decided 
I  movement  had  been  made  to  arrest  him.  It  was  then, 
however,  that  the  Prince  Prospero,  maddening  with 
rage  and  the  shame  of  his  own  momentary  cowardice, 
I  rushed  hurriedly  through  the  six  chambers,  while 
1  none  followed  him  on  account  of  a  deadly  terror  that 
1  had  seized  upon  all.  He  bore  aloft  a  drawn  dagger, 
and  had  approached,  in  rapid  impetuosity,  to  within 
t  three  or  four  feet  of  the  retreating  figure,  when  the 
Hatter,  having  attained  the  extremity  of  the  velvet 
apartment,  turned  suddenly  and  confronted  his  pur¬ 
suer.  There  was  a  sharp  cry  —  and  the  dagger 
^  dropped  gleaming  upon  the  sable  carpet,  upon  which, 
instantly  afterwards,  fell  prostrate  in  death  the  Prince 
Prospero.  Then,  summoning  the  wild  courage  of  de¬ 
spair,  a  throng  of  the  revellers  at  once  threw  them¬ 
selves  into  the  black  apartment,  and,  seizing  the 
mummer,  whose  tall  figure  stood  erect  and  motionless 
within  the  shadow  of  the  ebony  clock,  gasped  in  un¬ 
utterable  horror  at  finding  the  grave  cerements  and 
'  corpse-like  mask,  which  they  handled  with  so  violent 
a  rudeness,  untenanted  by  any  tangible  form. 

And  now  was  acknowledged  the  presence  of  the 
Red  Death.  He  had  come  like  a  thief  in  the  night. 


82  THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  RED  DEATH 

And  one  by  one  dropped  the  revellers  in  the  blood- 
bedewed  halls  of  their  revel,  and  died  each  in  the 
despairing  posture  of  his  fall.  And  the  life  of  the 
ebony  clock  went  out  with  that  of  the  last  of  the  gay. 
And  the  flames  of  the  tripods  expired.  And  Dark¬ 
ness  and  Decay  and  the  Ked  Death  held  illimitable 
dominion  over  all. 


THE  ASSIGNATION  * 

(VENICE) 

Stay  for  me  there  !  I  will  not  fail 

To  meet  thee  in  that  hollow  vale. 

Henry  King,  Bishop  of  Chichester  :  The  Exequy. 

Ill-fated  and  mysterious  man !  bewildered  in  the 
brilliancy  of  tbine  own  imagination,  and  fallen  in  the 
flames  of  thine  own  youth!  Again  in  fancy  I  behold 
thee !  Once  more  thy  form  hath  risen  before  me ! 
not  — oh,  not  as  thou  art  — in  the  cold  valley  and 
shadow  —  but  as  thou  sTiouldst  he  —  squandering  away 
a  life  of  magnificent  meditation  in  that  city  of  dim 
visions,  thine  own  Yenice  —  which  is  a  star-beloved, 
Elysium  of  the  sea,  and  the  wide  windows  of  whose 
Palladian  palaces  look  down  with  a  deep  and  bitter 
meaning  upon  the  secrets  of  her  silent  waters.  Yes  ! 
I  repeat  it — as  thou  shouldst  he.  There  are  surely 
other  worlds  than  this:  other  thoughts  than  the 
thoughts  of  the  multitude,  other  speculations  than 
the  speculations  of  the  sophist.  Who  then  shall  call 

♦  By  permission  of  H.  S.  Stone  &  Co. 

83 


84 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


! 


thy  conduct  into  question?  who  blame  thee  for  thy  | 
visionary  hours,  or  denounce  those  occupations  as  a 
wasting  away  of  life,  which  were  but  the  overflowings  ' 
of  thine  everlasting  energies  ? 

It  was  at  Venice,  beneath  the  covered  archway 
there  called  the  Ponte  di  jSospiri,  that  I  met  for  the 
third  or  fourth  time  the  person  of  whom  I  speak.  It 
is  with  a  confused  recollection  that  I  bring  to  mind  i 
the  circumstances  of  that  meeting.  Yet  I  remember  1 
—  ah  !  how  should  I  forget  ?— the  deep  midnight,  the 
Bridge  of  Sighs,  the  beauty  of  woman,  and  the  Genius 
of  Romance  that  stalked  up  and  down  the  narrow 
canal. 

It  was  a  night  of  unusual  gloom.  The  great  clock  ^ 
of  the  Piazza  had  sounded  the  fifth  hour  of  the 
Italian  evening.  The  square  of  the  Campanile  lay 
silent  and  deserted,  and  the  lights  in  the  old  Ducal 
Palace  were  dying  fast  away.  I  was  returning  home  i 
from  the  Piazetta,  by  way  of  the  Grand  Cg.nal.  But 
as  my  gondola  arrived  opposite  the  mouth  of  the  canal 
San  Marco,  a  female  voice  from  its  recesses  broke 
suddenly  upon  the  night,  in  one  wild,  hysterical,  and 
long-continued  shriek/  Startled  at  the  sound,  I  sprang 
upon  my  feet,  while  the  gondolier,  letting  slip  his 
single  oar,  lost  it  in  the  pitchy  darkness  beyond  a  ^ 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


85 


chance  of  recovery,  and  we  were  consequently  left  to 
the  guidance  of  the  current  which  here  sets  from  the 
greater  into  the  smaller  channel.  Like  some  huge 
and  sable-feathered  condor,  we  were  slowly  drifting 
down  towards  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  when  a  thousand 
flambeaus  flashing  from  the  windows,  and  down  the 
staircases  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  turned  all  at  once  that 
deep  gloom  into  a  livid^and  preternatural  day. 

A  child,  slipping  from  the  arms  of  its  own  mother, . 
had  fallen  from  an  upper  window  of  the  lofty  struc¬ 
ture  into  the  deep  and  dim  canal.  The  quiet  waters 
had  closed  placidly  over  their  victim;  and,  although 
my  own  gondola  was  the  only  one  in  sight,  many  a 
stout  swimmer,  already  in  the  stream,  was  seeking  in 
vain  upon  the  surface  the  treasure  which  was  to  be 
found,  alas !  only  within  the  abyss.  Upon  the  broad 
black  marble  flagstones  at  the  entrance  of  the  palace, 
and  a  few  steps  above  the  water,  stood  a  figure  which 
none  who  then  saw  can  have  ever  since  forgotten.  It 
was  the  MaTfili£a2.--A.phroflite  —  the  adoration  of  all 
Venice — the  gayest  of  the  gay  —  the  most  lovely 
where  all  were  beautiful  —  but  still  the  young  wife  of 
the  old  and  intriguing  Mentoni,  and  the  mother  of  that 
fair  child,  her  first  and  only  one,  who  now,  deep  be¬ 
neath  the  murky  water,  was  thinking  in  bitterness  of 


86 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


heart  upon  her  sweet  caresses,  and  exhausting  its  little 
life  in  struggles  to  call  upon  her  name. 

She  stood  alone.  Her  small,  bare,  and  silvery  feet 
gleamed  in  the  black  mirror  of  marble  beneath  her. 
Her  hair,  not  as  yet  more  than  half  loosened  for  the 
night  from  its  ball-room  array,  clustered,  amid  a 
shower  of  diamonds,  round  and  round  her  classical 
head,  in  curls  like  those  of  the  young  hyacinth.  A 
snowy-white  and  gauze-like  drapery  seemed  to  be 
nearly  the  sole  covering  to  her  delicate  form ;  but  the 
midsummer  and  midnight  air  was  hot,  sullen,  and 
still,  and  no  motion  in  the  statue-like  form  itself 
stirred  even  the  folds  of  that  raiment  of  very  vapor 
which  hung  around  it  as  the  heavy  marble  hangs 
around  the  Niobe.  Yet,  strange  to  say,  her  large 
lustrous  eyes  were  not  turned  downwards  upon  that 
grave  wherein  her  brightest  hope  lay  buried  but 
riveted  in  a  widely  different  direction!  The  prison 
of  the  Old  Eepublic  is,  I  think,  the  stateliest  building 
in  all  Venice,  but  how  could  that  lady  gaze  so  fixedly 
upon  it,  when  beneath  her  lay  stifling  her  only  child  ? 
Yon  dark,  gloomy  niche,  too,  yawns  right  opposite  her 
chamber  window  —  what,  then,  could  there  be  in  its 
shadows,  in  its  architecture,  in  its  ivy-wreathed  and 
solemn  cornices,  that  the  Marchesa  di  VTentoni  had 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


87 


not  wondered  at  a  thousand  times  before?  Non¬ 
sense  !  Who  does  not  remember  that,  at  such  a  time 
as  this,  the  eye,  like  a  shattered  mirror,  multiplies  the 
images  of  its  sorrow,  and  sees  in  innumerable  far-off 
!  places  the  woe  which  is  close  at  hand  ? 

I  Many  steps  above  the  Marchesa,  and  within  the 
I  arch  of  the  water-gate,  stood,  in  full  dress,  the  satyr¬ 
like  figure  of  Mentoni  himself.  He  was  occasionally 
occupied  in  thrumming  a  guitar,  and  seemed  ennuy^ 
to  the  very  death,  as  at  intervals  he  gave  directions 
for  the  recovery  of  his  child.  Stupefied  and  aghast, 
I  had  myself  no  power  to  move  from  the  upright  posi¬ 
tion  I  had  assumed  upon  first  hearing  the  shriek,  and 
must  have  presented  to  the  eyes  of  the  agitated  group 
a  spectral  and  ominous  appearance,  as  with  pale  coun¬ 
tenance  and  rigid  limbs  I  floated  down  among  them  in 
that  funereal  gondola. 

All  efforts  proved  in  vain.  Many  of  the  most  ener¬ 
getic  in  the  search  were  relaxing  their  exertions,  and 
yielding  to  a  gloomy  sorrow.  There  seemed  but 
little  hope  for  the  child  (how  much  less  than  for 
the  mother !) ;  but  now,  from  the  interior  of  that 
dark  niche  which  has  been  already  mentioned  as 
forming  a  part  of  the  Old  Republican  prison,  and  as 
fronting  the  lattice  of  the  Marchesa,  a  figure  muffled 


88 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


in  a  cloak  stepped  out  within  reach  of  the  light,  and, 
pausing  a  moment  upon  the  verge  of  the  ghldy  descent, 
plunged  headlong  into  the  canal.  As  in  an  instant 
afterwards  he  stood,  with  the  still  living  and  breathing 
child  within  his  grasp,  upon  the  marble  flagstones  by 
the  side  of  the  Marchesa,  his  cloak,  heavy  with  the 
drenching  water,  became  unfastened,  and,  falling  in 
folds  about  his  feet,  discovered  to  the  wonder-stricken 
spectators  the  graceful  person  of  a  very  young  man, 
with  the  sound  of  whose  name  the  greater  part  of 
Europe  was  then  ringing. 

No  word  spoke  the  deliverer.  But  the  Marchesa! 
She  will  now  receive  her  child  —  she  will  press  it  to 
her  heart  —  she  will  cling  to  its  little  form,  and 
smother  it  with  her  caresses.  Alas !  another’s  arms 
have  taken  it  from  the  stranger — anothei'^s  arms  have 
taken  it  away,  and  borne  it  afar  off,  unnoticed,  into 
the  palace  I  And  the  Marchesa  1  Her  lip  —  her 
beautiful  lip  trembles ;  tears  are  gathering  in  her 
eyes  —  those  eyes  which,  like  Pliny’s  acanthus,  are 
“  soft  and  almost  liquid.”  Yes,  tears  are  gathering 
in  those  eyes  —  and  see  1  the  entire  woman  thrills 
throughout  the  soul,  and  the  statue  has  started  into 
life !  The  pallor  of  the  marble  countenance,  the  swell¬ 
ing  of  the  marble  bosom,  the  very  purity  of  the  marble 


THE  ASSIGNAT) 


89 


feet,  we  behold  suddenly  flushj^over  with  a  tide  of 
ungovernable  shudder  quivers 

about  h^d^diSe^frame,  as  a  gentle  air  at  Napoli 
aboubldhe  rich  silver  lilies  in  the  grass. 

^^"^fhy  should  that  lady  blush?  To  this  demand 
there  is  no  answer  —  except  that,  having  left,  in  the 
^  eager  haste  and  terror  of  a  mother’s  heart,  the  privacy 
of  her  own  boudoir,  she  has  neglected  to  enthrall  her 
tiny  feet  in  their  slippers,  and  utterly  forgotten  to 
throw  over  her  Venetian  shoulders  that  drapery  which 
is  their  due.  What  other  possible  reason  could  there 
have  been  for  her  so  blushing  ?  —  for  the  glance  of 
those  wild  appealing  eyes  ?  for  the  unusual  tumult  of 
that  throbbing  bosom  ?  for  the  convulsive  pressure 
of  that  trembling  hand  —  that  hand  which  fell,  as 
Mentoni  turned  into  the  palace,  accidentally  upon  the 
hand  of  the  stranger  ?  What  reason  could  there  have 
been  for  the  low  —  the  singularly  low  tone  of  those 
unmeaning  words  wdiich  the  lady  uttered  hurriedly  in 
bidding  him  adieu  ?  Thou  hast  conquered,”  she 
said,  or  the  murmurs  of  the  water  deceived  me  ;  “  thou 
hast  conquered  —  one  hour  after  sunTise  —  we  shall 
meet  —  so  let  it  be !  ” 

******** 

The  tumult  had  subsided,  the  lights  had  died  away 


90 


'IE  ASSIGNATION 


within  the  palace,  stranger,  whom  I  now  rec¬ 
ognized,  stood  alone  shook  with 

inconceivable  agitation,  and  his  eye  glabS^^around  in 
search  of  a  gondola.  I  could  not  do  less  thS^offer 
him  the  service  of  my  own;  and  he  acceptea'thex 
civility.  Having  obtained  an  oar  at  the  water-gate, 
we  proceeded  together  to  his  residence,  while  he 
rapidly  recovered  his  self-possession,  and  spoke  of 
our  former  slight  acquaintance  in  terms  of  great 
apparent  cordiality. 

There  are  some  subjects  upon  which  I  take  pleasure 
in  being  minute.  The  person  of  the  stranger —  let  me 
call  him  by  this  title,  who  to  all  the  world  was  still  a 
stranger  —  the  person  of  the  stranger  is  one  of  these 
subjects.  In  height  he  might  have  been  below  rather 
than  above  the  medium  size ;  although  there  were 
moments  of  intense  passion  when  his  frame  actually 
expanded  and  belied  the  assertion.  The  light,  almost 
slender,  symmetry  of  his  figure  promised  more  of  that 
ready  activity  which  he  evinced  at  the  Bridge  of 
Sighs,  than  of  that  Herculean  strength  which  he  has 
been  known  to  wield  without  an  effort,  upon  occasions 
of  more  dangerous  emergency.  With  the  mouth  and 
chin  of  a  deity  —  singular,  wild,  full,  liquid  eyes, 
whose  shadows  varied  from  pure  hazel  to  intense  and 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


91 


brilliant  jet  — and  a  profusion  of  curling,  black  hair, 
from  which  a  forehead  of  unusual  breadth  gleamed 
forth  at  intervals  all  light  and  ivory  —  his  were  features 
than  which  I  have  seen  none  more  classically  regular, 
except,  perhaps,  the  marble  ones  of  the  Emperor 
Commodus.  Yet  his  countenance  was,  nevertheless, 
one  of  those  which  all  men  have  seen  at  some  period 
of  their  lives,  and  have  never  afterwards  seen  again. 
It  had  no  peculiar  —  it  had  no  settled  predominant 
expression  to  be  fastened  upon  the  memory  5  a  coun¬ 
tenance  seen  and  instantly  forgotten,  but  forgotten 
with  a  vague  and  never-ceasing  desire  of  recalling  it 
to  mind.  Not  that  the  spirit  of  each  rapid  passion 
failed,  at  any  time,  to  throw  its  own  distinct  image 
upon  the  mirror  of  that  face ;  but  that  the  mirror, 
mirror-like,  retained  no  vestige  of  the  passion,  when 
the  passion  had  departed. 

Upon  leaving  him  on  the  night  of  our  adventure,  he 
solicited  me,  in  what  I  thought  an  urgent  manner,  to 
call  upon  him  very  early  the  next  morning.  Shortly 
after  sunrise  I  found  myself  accordingly  at  his  Pa¬ 
lazzo,  one  of  those  huge  structures  of  gloomy,  yet 
fantastic  pomp,  which  tower  above  the  waters  of  the 
Grand  Canal  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Eialto.  I  was 
shown  up  a  broad  winding  staircase  of  mosaics  into 


92 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


an  apartment  whose  unparalleled  splendor  burst 
through  the  opening  door  with  an  actual  glare, 
making  me  blind  and  dizzy  with  luxuriousness. 

I  knew  my  acquaintance  to  be  wealthy.  Eeport 
had  spoken  of  his  possessions  in  terms  which  I  had 
even  ventured  to  call  terms  of  ridiculous  exaggeration. 
But  as  I  gazed  about  me,  I  could  not  bring  myself  to 
believe  that  the  wealth  of  any  subject  in  Europe  could 
have  supplied  the  princely  magnificence  which  burned 
and  blazed  around. 

Although,  as  I  say,  the  sun  had  arisen,  yet  the  room 
was  still  brilliantly  lighted  up.  I  judged  from  this 
circumstance,  as  well  as  from  an  air  of  exhaustion  in 
the  countenance  of  my  friend,  that  he  had  not  retired 
to  bed  during  the  whole  of  the  preceding  night.  In 
the  architecture  and  embellishments  of  the  chamber 
the  evident  design  had  been  to  dazzle  and  astound. 
Little  attention  had  been  paid  to  the  decora  of  what 
is  technically  called  keeping,  or  to  the  proprieties  of 
nationality.  The  eye  wandered  from  object  to  object, 
and  rested  upon  none — neither  the  grotesques  of  the 
Greek  painters,  nor  the  sculptures  of  the  best  Italian 
days,  nor  the  huge  carvings  of  untutored  Egypt.  Eich 
draperies  in  every  part  of  the  room  trembled  to  the 
vibration  of  low,  melancholy  music,  whose  origin  was 

f 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


93 


ot  to  be  discovered.  The  senses  were  oppressed  by 
lingled  and  conflicting  perfumes,  reeking  up  from 
trange  convolute  censers,  together  with  multitudi- 
,  LOUS  flaring  and  flickering  tongues  of  emerald  and 
;  iolet  fire.  The  rays  of  the  newly  risen  sun  poured 
I  n  upon  the  whole,  through  windows,  formed  each  of 
single  pane  of  crimson-tinted  glass.  Glancing  to 
md  fro  in  a  thousand  reflections,  from  curtains  which 
oiled  from  their  cornices  like  cataracts  of  molten 
diver,  the  beams  of  natural  glory  mingled  at  length 
I  itfully  with  the  artificial  light,  and  lay  weltering  in 
jubdued  masses  upon  a  carpet  of  rich,  liquid-looking 
doth  of  Chili  gold. 

Ha !  ha  !  ha !  —  ha !  ha !  ha !  ”  —  laughed  the  pro- 
Drietor,  motioning  me  to  a  seat  as  I  entered  the  room, 
md  throwing  himself  back  at  full  length  upon  an 
ottoman.  see,”  said  he,  perceiving  that  I  could 

.aot  immediately  reconcile  myself  to  the  bienseance  of 
30  singular  a  welcome  —  ‘‘I  see  you  are  astonished  at 
my  apartment  —  at  my  statues  —  my  pictures  —  my 
Driginality  of  conception  in  architecture  and  uphol¬ 
stery  !  absolutely  drunk,  eh,  with  my  magnificence  ? 
But  pardon  me,  my  dear  sir  ”  (here  his  tone  of  voice 
dropped  to  the  very  spirit  of  cordiality),  “pardon  me 
for  my  uncharitable  laughter.  You  appeared  so  utterly 


94 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


astonished.  Besides,  some  things  are  so  completely 
ludicrous  that  a  man  must  laugh,  or  die.  To  di^ 
laughing  must  be  the  most  glorious  of  all  glorious 
deaths  !  Sir  Thomas  More®  —  a  very  fine  man  wasj 
Sir  Thomas  More  —  Sir  Thomas  More  died  laughing 
you  remember.  Also  in  the  Absurdities  of  Bavisius 
Textor  there  is  a  long  list  of  characters  who  came  tc 
the  same  magnificent  end.  Do  you  know,  however,’] 
continued  he,  musingly,  ‘Hhat  at  Sparta  —  which  isj; 
now  Palaeochori  —  at  Sparta,  I  say,  to  the  west  of  thej 
citadel,  among  a  chaos  of  scarcely  visible  ruins,  is  £ 
kind  of  socle  upon  which  are  still  legible  the  letters 
AA2M.  They  are  undoubtedly  part  of  TEAA^MA 
Now,  at  Sparta  were  a  thousand  temples  and  shrines 
to  a  thousand  different  divinities.  How  exceedingly 
strange  that  the  altar  of  Laughter  should  have  sur 
vived  all  the  others !  But  in  the  present  instance,’ 
he  resumed,  with  a  singular  alteration  of  voice  anc 
manner,  ‘A  have  no  right  to  be  merry  at  your  ex 
pense.  You  might  well  have  been  amazed.  Europt 
cannot  produce  anything  so  fine  as  this,  my  litth 
regal  cabinet.  My  other  apartments  are  by  no  means 
of  the  same  order  —  mere  ultras  oi  fashionable  insi 
pidity.  This  is  better  than  fashion,  is  it  not?  Ye1 
this  has  but  to  be  seen  to  become  the  rage  —  that  is 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


95 


with  those  who  could  afford  it  at  the  cost  of  their  en¬ 
tire  patrimony.  I  have  guarded,  however,  against  any 
such  profanation.  With  one  exception  you  are  the 
only  human  being,  besides  myself  and  my  valet,  who  has 
been  admitted  within  the  mysteries  of  these  imperial 
precincts,  since  they  have  been  bedizened  as  you  see  !  ” 

I  bowed  in  acknowledgment :  for  the  overpowering 
sense  of  splendor  and  perfume  and  music,  together 
with  the  unexpected  eccentricity  of  his  address  and 
manner,  prevented  me  from  expressing,  in  words,  my 
appr0ciation  of  what  I  might  have  construed  into  a 
compliment. 

‘^Here,”  he  resumed,  arising  and  leaning  on  my 
arm  as  he  sauntered  around  the  apartment,  —  “here 
are  paintings  from  the  Greeks  to  Cimabue,°  and  from 
Cimabue  to  the  present  hour.  Many  are  chosen,  as 
you  see,  with  little  deference  to  the  opinions  of  Virtu. 
They  are  all,  however,  fitting  tapestry  for  a  chamber 
V  such  as  this.  Here,  too,  are  some  chefs  d’oeuvre  of 
the  unknown  great;  and  here,  unfinished  designs  by 
•  men,  celebrated  in  their  day,  whose  very  names  the 
perspicacity  of  the  academies  has  left  to  silence  and 
to  me.  What  think  you,’'  said  he,  turning  abruptly 
as  he  spoke  —  ^^what  think  you  of  this  Madonna  della 

Pieta  ?  ” 


96 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


^  is  Guido’s®  own!”  I  said,  with  all  the  enthu¬ 
siasm  of  my  nature,  for  I  had  been  poring  intently 
over  its  surpassing  loveliness.  “  It  is  Guido’s  own !  — 
how  could  you  have  obtained  it  ?  she  is  undoubtedly 
in  painting  what  the  Venus  is  in  sculpture.” 

^^Ha!”  said  he,  thoughtfully,  “the  Venus  — the 
beautiful  Venus?— the  Venus  of  the  Medici?  — she 
of  the  diminutive  head  and  the  gilded  hair  ?  Part  of 
the  left  arm,”  (here  his  voice  dropped  so  as  to  be  heard 
with  difficulty)  “  and  all  the  right,  are  restorations  5 
and  in  the  coquetry  of  that  right  arm  lies,  I  think, 
the  quintessence  of  all  affectation.  Give  me  the  Ca- 
nova !  The  Apollo,  too,  is  a  copy  —  there  can  be  no 
doubt  of  it  —  blind  fool  that  I  am,  who  cannot  behold 
the  boasted  inspiration  of  the  Apollo !  I  cannot  help 
—  pity  me  !  —  I  cannot  help  preferring  the  Antinous. 
Was  it  not  Socrates  who  said  that  the  statuary  found 
his  statue  in  the  block  of  marble  ?  Then  Michel 
Angelo  was  by  no  means  original  in  his  couplet _ 

_  “  ‘  Non  ha  I’ottimo  artista  alcun  concetto 

Ch6  un  marmo  solo  in  se  non  circonscriva.  ’  ” 

It  has  been  or  should  be  remarked  that,  in  the  man¬ 
ner  of  the  true  gentleman,  we  are  always  aware  of  a 
difference  from  the  bearing  of  the  vulgar,  without 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


97 


being  at  once  precisely  able  to  determine  in  what  such 
difference  consists.  Allowing  the  remark  to  have  ap¬ 
plied  in  its  full  force  to  the  outward  demeanor  of  my 
acquaintance,  I  felt  it,  on  that  eventful  morning,  still 
more  fully  applicable  to  his  moral  temperament  and 
character.  Nor  can  I  better  define  that  peculiarity 
of  spirit  which  seemed  to  place  him  so  essentially 
apart  from  all  other  human  beings,  than  by  calling  it 
a  habit  of  intense  and  continual  thought,  pervading 
even  his  most  trivial  actions,  intruding  upon  his  mo¬ 
ments  of  dalliance,  and  interweaving  itself  with  his 
very  flashes  of  merriment,  like  adders  which  writhe 
from  out  the  eyes  of  the  grinning  masks  in  the  cor¬ 
nices  around  the  temples  of  Persepolis. 

I  could  not  help,  however,  repeatedly  observing, 
through  the  mingled  tone  of  levity  and  solemnity  with 
which  he  rapidly  descanted  upon  matters  of  little  im¬ 
portance,  a  certain  air  of  trepidation  —  a  degree  of 
/nervous  unction  in  action  and  in  speech  —  an  unquiet 
excitability  of  manner  which  appeared  to  me  at  all 
times  unaccountable,  and  upon  some  occasions  even 
filled  me  with  alarm.  Frequently,  too,  pausing  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence  whose  commencement  he  had 
apparently  forgotten,  he  seemed  to  be  listening  in  the 
deepest  attention,  as  if  either  in  momentary  expecta- 

H 


98 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


tion  of  a  visitor,  or  to  sounds  which,  must  have  had 
existence  in  his  imagination  alone. 

It  was  during  one  of  these  reveries  or  pauses  of 
apparent  abstraction,  that,  in  turning  over  a  page  of 
the  poet  and  scholar  Politian’s  beautiful  tragedy,  the 
Orfeo  (the  first  native  Italian  tragedy),  which  lay 
near  me  upon  an  ottoman,  I  discovered  a  passage  un¬ 
derlined  in  pencil.  It  was  a  passage  towards  the  end 
of  the  third  act  —  a  passage  of  the  most  heart-stirring 
excitement  —  a  passage  which,  although  tainted  with 
impurity,  no  man  shall  read  without  a  thrill  of  novel 
emotion,  no  woman  without  a  sigh.  The  whole  page 
was  blotted  with  fresh  tears ;  and  upon  the  opposite 
interleaf  were  the  following  English  lines,  written  in 
a  hand  so  very  different  from  the  peculiar  characters 
of  my  acquaintance  that  I  had  some  difficulty  in 
recognizing  it  as  his  own:  — 

Thou  wast  all  that  to  me,  love, 

For  which  my  soul  did  pine  : 

A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine 

All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last ! 

Ah,  starry  Hope,  that  didst  arise 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


99 


But  to  be  overcast ! 

,  A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries, 

“Onloul” — but  o’er  the  Past 
(Dim  gulf  1)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute  —  motionless  —  aghast. 

For  alas  !  alas  !  with  me 
The  light  of  Life  is  o’er. 

“No  more  —  no  more  —  no  more  — 

(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 
To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 

Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar. 

Now  all  my  hours  are  trances. 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  gray  eye  glances. 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams, 

In  what  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  Italian  streams. 

Alas !  for  that  accursed  time 
They  bore  thee  o’er  the  billow. 

From  Love  to  titled  age  and  crime, 

And  an  unholy  pillow  : 

From  me,  and  from  our  misty  clime 
Where  weeps  the  silver  willow. 

That  these  lines  were  written  in  English,  a  language 
'■with  which  I  had  not  believed  their  author  acciuainted, 
^afforded  me  little  matter  for  surprise.  I  was  too  well 


V 


100 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


aware  of  the  extent  of  his  acquirements,  and  of  the, 
singular  pleasure  he  took  in  concealing  them  from*? 
observation,  to  be  astonished  at  any  similar  discovery 
but  the  place  of  date,  I  must  confess,  occasioned  me? 
no  little  amazement.  It  had  been  originally  written'^ 
London,  and  afterwards  carefully  overscored  —  not,^ 
however,  so  effectually  as  to  conceal  the  word  from  a  ^ 
scrutinizing  eye.  I  say,  this  occasioned  me  no  little!^ 
amazement ;  for  I  well  remember  that,  in  a  former  con- 1 
versation  with  my  friend,  I  particularly  inquired  if  hel' 
had  at  any  time  met  in  London  the  Marchesa  di  Men-? 
toni  (who  for  some  years  previous  to  her  marriage  had^' 
resided  in  that  city),  when  his  answer,  if  I  mistaken 
not,  gave  me  to  understand  that  he  had  never  visited'' 
the  metropolis  of  Great  Britain.  I  might  as  well  here  ■ 
mention  that  I  have  more  than  once  heard  (without,  ^ 
of  course,  giving  credit  to  a  report  involving  so  many 
improbabilities),  that  the  person  of  whom  I  speak  was  ^ 
not  only  by  birth,  but  in  education,  an  Englishman.  \ 

*=^******  ; 

''There  is  one  painting,”  said  he,  without  being] 

aware  of  my  notice  of  the  tragedy  —  "there  is  stilL 
one  painting  which  you  have  not  seen.”  And  throw¬ 
ing  aside  a  drapery,  he  discovered  a  full-length  por¬ 
trait  of  the  Marchesa  Aphrodite. 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


101 


Human  art  could  have  done  no  more  in  the  delinea- 
don  of  her  superhuman  beauty.  The  same  ethereal 
igure  which  stood  before  me  the  preceding  night,  upon 
:he  steps  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  stood  before  me  once 
again.  But  in  the  expression  of  the  countenance,  which 
was  beaming  all  over  with  smiles,  there  still  lurked 
(incomprehensible  anomaly !)  that  fitful  strain  of  mel¬ 
ancholy  which  will  ever  be  found  inseparable  from  the 
perfection  of  the  beautiful.  Her  right  arm  lay  folded 
3ver  her  bosom.  With  her  left  she  pointed  downward 
to  a  curiously  fashioned  vase.  One  small,  fairy  foot, 
alone  visible,  barely  touched  the  earth ;  and,  scarcely 
discernible  in  the  brilliant  atmosphere  which  seemed 
Ito  encircle  and  enshrine  her  loveliness,  floated  a  pair 
'of  the  most  delicately  imagined  wings.  My  glance 
fell  from  the  painting  to  the  figure  of  my  friend,  and 
dhe  vigorous  words  of  Chapman’s  Bussy  D’Ambois° 

^  quivered  instinctively  upon  my  lips :  — 

j 

“I  am  up 

Here  like  a  Koman  statue  ;  I  will  stand 
Till  death  hath  made  me  marble  1  ” 

Come,”  he  said  at  length,  turning  towards  a  table 
of  richly  enamelled  and  massive  silver,  upon  which 
were  a  few  goblets  fantastically  stained,  together  with 


102 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


two  large  Etruscan  vases,  fashioned  in  the  same  ex-  j| 
traordinary  model  as  that  in  the  foreground  of  thei| 
portrait,  and  filled  with  what  I  supposed  to  be  Johannis-  :j 
berger.  “  Come,”  he  said  abruptly,  ‘‘  let  us  drink  !  It ,! 
is  early  —  but  let  us  drink.  It  is  indeed  early,”  he  ’ 
continued  musingly,  as  a  cherub  with  a  heavy  golden 
hammer  made  the  apartment  ring  with  the  first  hour  | 
after  sunrise :  “  it  is  indeed  early  —  but  what  matters  i 
it  ?  let  us  drink !  Let  us  pour  out  an  offering  to  yon  | 
solemn  sun  which  these  gaudy  lamps  and  censers  are  j 
so  eager  to  subdue  !  ”  And,  having  made  me  pledge  1 
him  in  a  bumper,  he  swallowed  in  rapid  succession  ! 
several  goblets  of  the  wine.  ; 

To  dream,”  he  continued,  resuming  the  tone  of  his  ; 
desultory  conversation,  as  he  held  up  to  the  rich  light  ^ 
of  a  censer  one  of  the  magnificent  vases  —  to  dream  i 
has  been  the  business^oLjmy -life.  I  have  therefore  | 
framed  for  myself,  as  you  see,  a  bower  of  dreams.  In  ! 
the  heart  of  Venice  could  I  have  erected  a  better?  I 
You  behold  around  you,  it  is  true,  a  medley  of  archi-  i 
tectural  embellishments.-  The  chastity  of  Ionia  is  i 
offended  by  antediluvian  devices,  and  the  sphinxes  I 
of  Egypt  are  outstretched  upon  carpets  of  gold;  Yet  j 
the  effect  is  incongruous  to  the  timid  alone.  Pro-  ■ 
prieties  of  place,  and  especially  of  time,  are  the  bug-  , 


r 


103 


THE  ASSIGNATION 

bears  which  terrify  mankind  from  the  contemplation 
of  the  magnificent.  Once  I  was  myself  a  decorist; 
but  that  vmblimation  of  folly  has  palled  upon  my  soul. 
All  this  is  now  the  fitter  for  my  purpose.  Like  these 
arabesque  censers,  my  spirit  is  writhing  in  fire,  and 
the  delirium  of  this  scene  is  fashioning  me  for  the 
wilder  visions  of  that  land  of  real  dreams  whither  I 
am  now  rapidly  departing.”  He  here  paused  abruptly, 
bent  his  head  to  his  bosom,  and  seemed  to  listen  to  a 
sound  which  I  could  not  hear.  At  length,  erecting 
his  frame,  he  looked  upwards,  and  ejaculated  the 
lines  of  the  Bishop  of  Chichester:  — 

“  Stay  for  me  there  !  I  will  not  fail 
To  meet  thee  in  that  hollow  vale.'' 

In  the  next  instant,  confessing  the  power  of  the  wine, 
he  threw  himself  at  full  length  upon  an  ottoman. 

A  quick  step  was  heard  upon  the  staircase,  and  a 
loud  knock  at  the  door  rapidly  succeeded.  I  was 
hastening  to  anticipate  a  second  disturbance,  when  a 
page  of  Mentoni’s  household  burst  into  the  room,  and 
faltered  out,  in  a  voice  choking  with  emotion,  the  in¬ 
coherent  words,  ^‘My  mistress!  — my  mistress!  — 
Poisoned !  —  poisoned !  Oh,  beautiful  —  oh,  beautiful 
Aphrodite !  ” 


104 


THE  ASSIGNATION 


Bewildered.^  I  flew  to  the  ottoman,  and  endeavored  ! 
to  arouse  the  sleeper  to  a  sense  of  the  startling  intelli-  1 
gence.  But  his  limbs  were  rigid  —  his  lips  were  livid 
—  his  lately  beaming  eyes  were  riveted  m,  death.  I 
staggered  back  towards  the  table  —  my  hand  fell  upon 
a  cracked  and  blackened  goblet  —  and  a  consciousness 
of  the  entire  and  terrible  truth  flashed  suddenly  over 
my  soul.  ; 


% ' 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO  * 

(rome) 

!  The  thousand  injuries  of  Fortunato  I  had  borne  as  I 
I  best  could ;  but  when  he  ventured  upon  insult,  I  vowed 
i  revenge.  You,  who  so  well  know  the  nature  of  my 
soul,  will  not  suppose,  however,  that  I  gave  utterance 
to  a  threat.  At  length  I  would  be  avenged;  this  was 
a  point  definitively  settled  —  but  the  very  definitive- 
ness  with  which  it  was  resolved  precluded  the  idea  of 
I  risk.  I  must  not  only  punish,  but  punish  with  im- 
ipunity.  a  wrong  is  unrediessed  when  retribution 
overtakes  its  redresse^  Iti  is  equally  unredressed 
'  when  the  avenger  failsto  make  himself  felt  as  such 
jito  him  who  has  done  the  wrong. 

It  must  be  understood  that  neither  by  word  nor  deed 
had  I  given  Fortunato  cause  to  doubt  my  good-will. 
;  I  continued,  as  was  my  wont,  to  smile  in  his  face,  and 
ihe  did  not  perceive  that  my  smile  now  was  at  the 
.  thought  of  his  immolation. 

He  had  a  weak  point  —  this  Fortunato  —  although 
in  other  regards  he  was  a  man  to  be  respected  and 

*  By  permission  of  H.  S.  Stone  &  Co. 

105 


106 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO 


even  feared.  He  prided  himself  on  his  connoisseur- 1 
ship  in  wine.  Few  Italians  have  the  true  virtuoso  | 
spirit.  For  the  most  part  their  enthusiasm  is  adopted  j| 
to  suit  the  time  and  opportunity  —  to  practise  impos-  li 
ture  upon  the  British  and  Austrian  millionnaires.  Id  I 
painting  and  gemmary,  Fortunate,  like  his  countrymen,  i 
was  a  quack  —  but  in  the  matter  of  old  wines  he  was 
sincere.  In  this  respect  I  did  not  differ  from  him  ; 
materially :  I  was  skilful  in  the  Italian  vintages  j 
myself,  and  bought  largely  whenever  I  could.  )[ 

It  was  about  dusk,  one  evening  during  the  supreme  | 
madness  of  the  carnival  season,  that  I  encountered  j 
my  friend.  He  accosted  me  with  excessive  warmth,  \ 
for  he  had  been  drinking  much.  The  man  wore  mot- 
ley.  Hie  had  on  a  tight-iitting  parti-striped  dress,  and 
his  head  was  surmounted  by  the  conical  cap  and  bells,  i 
I  was  so  pleased  to  see  him  that  I  thought  I  should  ] 
never  have  done  wringing  his  hand. 

"I  said  to  him,  “My  dear  Fortunate,  you  are  luckily 
met.  How  remarkably  well  you  are  looking  to-day !  * 
But  I  have  received  a  pipe  of  what  passes  for  Amon¬ 
tillado,  and  I  have  my  doubts.’’ 

“  How  ?  ”~&aid  he-.-  “  Amontillado  ?  A  pipe  ?  Im-  : 
possible  !  And  in  the  middle  of  the  carnival !  ” 

“I  have  my  doubts,”-!  replied j  “and  I  was  silly 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO 


107 


Qough  to  pay  the  full  Amontillado  price  without  con- 
ulting  you  in  the  matter.  You  were  not  to  be  found, 
nd  I  was  fearful  of  losing  a  bargain.’^ 

Amontillado !  ” 

“  I  have  my  doubts.’^ 

“  Amontillado !  ” 

“  And  I  must  satisfy  them.” 

Amontillado !  ” 

t  As  you  are  engaged,  I  am  on  my  way  to  Luchesi. 
|,.f  any  one  has  a  critical  turn,  it  is  he.  He  will  tell 
■ne  —  ” 

“  Luchesi  cannot  tell  Amontillado  from  Sherry.” 

And  yet  some  fools  will  have  it  that  his  taste  is  a 
toatch  for  your  own.” 

“  Come,  let  us  go.” 

Whither  ?  ” 

‘‘  To  your  vaults.” 

My  friend,  no ;  I  will  not  impose  upon  your  good¬ 
nature.  I  perceive  you  have  an  engagement.  Lu- 
3hesi  —  ” 

“  I  have  no  engagement ;  —  come.” 

“  My  friend,  no.  It  is  not  the  engagement,  but  the 
severe  cold  with  which  I  perceive  you  are  afflicted. 
^The  vaults  are  insufferably  damp.  They  are  incrusted 
with  nitre.” 


108 


THE'  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO 


II 


Let  us  go,  nevertheless.  The  cold  is  merely  noth- 1 
ing.  Amontillado !  You  have  been  imposed  upon. 
And  as  for  Luchesi,  he  cannot  distinguish  Sherry  from 
Amontillado.” 

Thus  speaking,  Fortunate  possessed  himself  of  my 


hurry  me  to  my  palazzo.  I 

There  were  no  attendants  at  home ;  they  had  ab¬ 
sconded  to  make  merry  in  honor  of  the  time.  I  had  [ 
told  them  that  I  should  not  return  until  the  morning,  i 


and  had  given  them  explicit  orders  not  to  stir  from 
the  house.  These  orders  were  sufficient,  I  well  knew, 
to  insure  their  immediate  disappearance,  one  and  all. 


as  soon  as  my  back  was  turned.  ; 

I  took  from  their  sconces  two  flambeaus,  and  giving  i 
one  to  Fortunato,  bowed  him  through  several  suites  of  ^ 


rooms  to  the  archway  that  led  into  the  vaults.  I 


passed  down  a  long  and  winding  staircase,  requesting  i 
him  to  be  cautious  as  he  followed.  We  came  at  length  ; 
^^^,jbhe  foot  of  the  descent,  and  stood  together  on  the 
damp  ground  of  the  catacombs  of  the  Montresors. 

The  gait  of  my  friend  was  unsteady,  and  the  bells 
upon  his  cap  jingled  as  he  strode. 

“  The  pipe,”  eaid  he-. 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO 


109 


It  is  farther  on/’ -said- 1 ;  ^^bnt  observe  the  white 
web-work  which  gleams  from  these  cavern  walls.” 

He  turned  towards  me,  and  looked  into  my  eyes 
with  two  filmy  orbs  that  distilled  the  rheum  of 
intoxication. 

Nitre  ?  ”  dm  asked  at  lengHr. 

“Nitre,”  I  replied.  “How  long  have  you  had  that 
cough  ?  ” 

“  Ugh  !  ugh !  ugh  !  —  ugh !  ugh !  ugh !  —  ugh !  ugh  ! 
ugh!  —  ugh!  ugh!  ugh! — ugh!  ugh!  ugh!” 

My  poor  friend  found  it  impossible  to  reply  for 
many  minutes. 

“It  is  nothing,”  he  said,  at  last. 

“Come,”  t  said,  with  decision,  “we  will  go  back; 
your  health  is  precious.  You  are  rich,  respected, 
admired,  beloved;  you  are  happy,  as  once  I  was. 
You  are  a  man  to  be  missed.  For  me  it  is  no  matter. 
We  will  go  back;  you  will  be  ill,  and  I  cannot  be 
responsible.  Besides,  there  is  Luchesi  —  ” 

“ Enough,”  he  said ;  “the  cough  is  a  mere  nothing; 
it  will  not  kill  me.  I  shall  not  die  of  a  cough.”  . 

“True  —  true,”  I  replied;  “and,  indeed,  I  had  no 
intention  of  alarming  you  unnecessarily  —  but  you 
should  use  all  proper  caution.  A  draught  of  this 
Medoc  will  defend  us  from  the  damps.” 


110  THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO  } 

,1 

Here  I  knocked  off  the  neck  of  a  bottle  wbicb  I  j 
drew  from  a  long  row  of  its  fellows  tbat  lay  upon  tbe  j 
mould. 

Drink/^  I  said,  presenting  him  the  wine.  ’ 

He  raised  it  to  his  lips  with  a  leer.  He  paused  and  t 
nodded  to  me  familiarly,  while  his  bells  jingled. 

drink,”  he  said,  ^‘to  the  buried  that  repose  ' 

around  us.” 

And  I  to  your  long  life.” 

He  again  took  my  arm,  and  we  proceeded. 

These  vaults,”  he^said,  are  extensive.” 

The  Montresors,”  -I-  replied,  ‘‘  were  a  great  and 
numerous  family.” 

I  forget  your  arms.” 

A  huge  human  foot  d’or,  in  a  field  azure ;  the  foot 
crushes  a  serpent  rampant  whose  fangs  are  imbedded 
in  the  heel.” 

And  the  motto  ?  ” 

Nemo  me  impune  lacessitJ^ 

Good !  ”  he  said. 

■  The  wine  sparkled  in  his  eyes  and  the  bells  jingled. 
My  own  fancy  grew  warm  with  the  Medoc.  We  had 
passed  through  walls  of  piled  bones,  with  casks  and 
puncheons  intermingling,  into  the  inmost  recesses  of 
the  catacombs.  I  paused  again,  and  this  time  I 


4 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO  111 

imade  bold  to  seize  Fortunate  by  an  arm  above  the 
(elbow. 

I  The  nitre !  T  said  j  see,  it  increases.  It  hangs 
like  moss  upon  the  vaults.  We  are  below  the  river’s  bed. 
'  The  drops  of  moisture  trickle  among  the  bones.  Come, 

I'  we  will  go  back  ere  it  is  too  late.  Your  cough _ ” 

‘at  is  nothing,’i^-he^aid;  “let  us  go  on.  But  first, 

;  another  draught  of  the  Medoc.” 

I  I  broke  and  reached  him  a  flagon  of  De  Grave.  He 
emptied  it  at  a  breath.  His  eyes  flashed  with  a  fierce 
1  light.  He  laughed  and  threw  the  bottle  upwards  with 
.  a  gesticulation  I  did  not  understand. 

I  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  He  repeated  the  move- 
I  ment  —  a  grotesque  one. 

“  You  do  not  comprehend  ?  ”  ho  said; 

“  Not  I,”  I  replied. 

“  Then  you  are  not  of  the  brotherhood.” 

“  How  ?  ” 

“  You  are  not  of  the  masons.” 

“Yes,  yes,”  Toaid,  “yes,  yes.” 

“  You  ?  Impossible  !  A  mason  ?  ” 

“  A  mason,”  I  replied; 

“  A  sign,”  he  said.  , 

“  It  is  this,”  I  answered,  produciUg  a  trowel  from 
beneath  the  folds  of  my  roquelaire. 


112 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO 


“You  jest/^  he '  exclaimed,  recoiling  a  few -paces. 
“  But  let  us  proceed  to  the  Amontillado.’’ 

“Be  it  so,”  I -said,  replacing  the  tool  beneath  tbe 
cloak,  and  again  offering  him  my  arm.  He  leaned 
upon  it  heavily.  We  continued  our  route  in  search  of 
the  Amontillado.  We  passed"  through  a  range  of  low 
arches,  descended,  passed  on,  and,  descending  again, 
arrived  at  a  deep  crypt,  in  which  the  foulness  of  the 
air  caused  our  flambeaus  rather  to  glow  than  flame. 

At  the  most  remote  end  of  the  crypt  there  appeared 
another  less  spacious.  Its  walls  had  been  lined  with 
human  remains,  piled  to  the  vault  overhead,  in  the 
fashion  of  the  great  catacombs  of  Paris.  Three  sides 
of  this  interior  crypt  were  still  ornamented  in  this 
manner.  From  the  fourth  the  bones  had  been  thrown 
down,  and  lay  promiscuously  upon  the  earth,  forming 
at  one  point  a  mound  of  some  size.  Within  the  wall 
thus  exposed  by  the  displacing  of  the  bones,  we  per¬ 
ceived  a  still  interior  recess,  in  depth  about  four  feet, 
in  width  three,  in  height  six  or  seven.  It  seemed  to 
have  been  constructed  for  no  especial  use  within  itself, 
but  formed  merely  the  interval  between  two  of  the 
colossal  supports  of  the  roof  of  the  catacombs,  and  was 
backed  by  one  of  their  circumscribing  walls  of  solid 
granite. 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO 


113 


It  was  in  vain  that  Fortunate,  uplifting  his  dull 
torch,  endeavored  to  pry  into  the  depth  of  the  recess, 
llts  termination  the  feeble  light  did  not  enable  ns  to  see. 

^^Proceed,’^'-Irsaid;  ^‘herein  is  the  Amontillado.  As 
for  Luchesi  —  ’’ 

is  an  ignoramus,’’ -interrupted  my  friend,  as  he 
stepped  unsteadily  forward,  while  I  followed  immedi¬ 
ately  at  his  heels.  In  an  instant  he  had  reached  the . 
extremity  of  the  niche,  and  finding  his  progress 
arrested  by  the  rock,  stood  stupidly  bewildered.  A 
I  moment  more  and  I  had  fettered  him  to  the  granite. 
]In  its  surface  were  two  iron  staples,  distant  from  each 
(Other  about  two  feet,  horizontally.  From  one  of  these 
(depended  a  short  chain,  from  the  other  a  padlock. 
'Throwings the  links  about  his  waist,  it  was  but  the 
work  of  a  few  seconds  to  secure  it.  He  was  too  much 
astounded  to  resist.  Withdrawing  the  key,  I  stepped 
Iback  from  the  recess. 

Pass  your  hand,”  I*eaid,  over  the  wall ;  you  can- 
inot  help  feeling  the  nitre.  Indeed  it  is  very  damp. 
Once  more  let  me  implore  you  to  return.  Ho  ?  Then 
I  must  positively  leave  you.  But  I  must  first  render 
hyou  all  the  little  attentions  in  my  power.” 

^^The  Amomillado  !  ”  ejaculated  my  friend,  not  yet 
-recovered  from  his  astonishment. 


I 


114 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO 


“  True,”  I  replied ;  “  the  Amontillado.”  • 

As  I  said  these  words  I  busied  myself  among  the  - 
pile  of  bones  of  which  I  have  before  spoken.  Throw¬ 
ing  them  aside,  I  soon  uncovered  a  quantity  of  build¬ 
ing  stone  and  mortar.  With  these  materials  and  with ' 
the  aid  of  my  trowel,  I  began  vigorously  to  wall  up  i 
the  entrance  of  the  niche. 

I  had  scarcely  laid  the  first  tier  of  the  masonry 
when  I  discovered  that  the  intoxication  of  Fortunato 
had  in  a  great  measure  worn  off.  The  earliest  indica¬ 
tion  I  had  of  this  was  a  low  moaning  cry  from  the  - 
depth  of  the  recess.  It  was  not  the  cry  of  a  drunken  ’■ 
man.  There  was  then  a  long  and  obstinate  silence.  . 
I  laid  the  second  tier,  and  the  third,  and  the  fourth;!, 
and  then  I  heard  the  furious  vibrations  of  the  chain.'^ 
The  noise  lasted  for  several  minutes,  during  which, 
that  I  might  hearken  to  it  with  the  more  satisfaction, 

I  ceased  my  labors  and  sat  down  upon  the  bones. 
When  at  last  the  clanking  subsided,  I  resumed  the 
trowel,  and  finished  without  interruption  the  fifth,  the 
sixth,  and  the  seventh  tier.  The  wall  was  now  nearly  - 
upon  a  level  with  my  breast.  I  again  paused,  and 
holding  the  fiambeaus  over  the  mason  work,  threw  a 
few  feeble  rays  upon  the  figure  within. 

A  succession  of  loud  and  shrill  screams,  bursting 


THE  CASl.  OF  AMONTILLADO 


115 


I  suddenly  from  the  throat  of  the  chained  form,  seemed 
to  thrust  me  violently  back.  For  a  brief  moment  I 
hesitated  —  I  trembled.  Unsheathing  my  rapier,  I 
began  to  grope  wi!  h  it  about  the  recess ;  but  the 
thought  of  an  insta  it  reassured  me.  I  placed  my 
i  hand  upon  the  solid  fabric  of  the  catacombs,  and  felt 
■  satisfied.  I  reapproached  the  wall.  I  replied  to  the 
,  yells  of  him  who  clamored.  I  reechoed  —  I  aided  — 

I  I  surpassed  them  in  volume  and  in  strength.  I  did 
I  this,  and  the  clamorer  grew  still. 

It  was  now  midnight,  and  my  task  was  drawing  to 
a  close.  I  had  completed  the  eighth,  the  ninth,  and 
the  tenth  tier.  I  had  finished  a  portion  of  the  last 
and  the  eleventh;  there  remained  but  a  single  stone 
to  be  fitted  and  plastered  in.  I  struggled  with  its 
weight ;  I  placed  it  partially  in  its  destined  position. 
But  now  there  came  from  out  the  niche  a  low  laugh 
that  erected  the  hairs  upon  my  head.  It  was  suc¬ 
ceeded  by  a  sad  voice,  which  I  had  difficulty  in  recog¬ 
nizing  as  that  of  the  noble  Fortunate.  -The  voice 

!  ha !  —  ne !  he  !  he  !  a  very  good 
indeed  —  an  excellent  jest.  We  will  have  many  a 
rich  laugh  about  it  at  the  palazzo  —  he  !  he !  he  !  — 
over  our  wine  —  he !  he !  he !  ” 


said;^ 


a!  ha 


116 


THE  CASK  OF  AMONTILLADO 


“  The  Amontillado  !  ”  I  said.  i  ' 

“  He  !  he !  he !  —  he  !  he !  he !  —  yes,  the  Amontil-  | 
lado.  But  is  it  not  getting  late  ?  Will  not  they  be  jj 
awaiting  us  at  the  palazzo,  —  the  Lady  Fortunate  and  i 
the  rest  ?  Let  us  be  gone.’’  7  ' 

Yes,”  I  said,  ‘‘let  us  be  gone.”  ! 

For  the  love  of  God,  Montresor!’^ 

“  Yes,”  I  said,  “  for  the  love  of  God  !  ” 

But  to  these  words  T  hearkened  in  vain  for  a  reply. 

I  grew  impatient.  I  called  aloud  — 

“Fortunate!”  •' 

No  answer.  I  called  again  — 

“Fortunate!”  .  'i 

y 

No  answer  still.  I  thrust  a  torch  through  the  re-  1 
maining  aperture  and  let  it  fall  within.  There  came 
forth  in  return  only  a  jingling  of  The  bel^ls.  My  heart  4 
grew  sick  —  on  account  of  the  dampness  of  the  cata-  ! 
combs.  I  hastened  to  make  an  end  of  my  labor.  I  I 
forced  the  last  stone  into  its  position ;  I  plastered  it  ! 
up.  Against  the  new  masonry  I  reerected  the  old  1 
rampart  of  bones.  For  the  half  of  a  century  no  mortal  ! 
has  disturbed  them.  In  pace  requiescat.  ’  ' 

•) 


\ 


THE  PIT  ANt)  THE  PENDULUM”* 

■  (SPAIN) 

I  .  Impia  tortorum  longas  hie  turba  furores 

Sanguinis  innocui,  non,  satiata,  aluit. 

Sospite  nunc  patria,  fracto  nunc  funeris  antro, 

'  :  Mors  ubi  dira  fuit  vita  salusque  patent. 

Quatrain  composed  for  the  gates  of  a  market 
to  he  erected  upon  the  site  of  the  Jacobin 
'i  Club  House  at  Paris. 

I  WAS  sick  —  sick  unto  death  with  that  long  agony  ; 
and  when  they  at  length  unbound  me,  and  I  was  per¬ 
mitted  to  sit,  I  felt  that  my  senses  were  leaving  me. 
The  sentence  —  the  dread  sentence  of  death  —  was  the 
i:3last  of  distinct  accentuation  which  reached  my  ears. 

After  that,  the  sound  of  the  inquisitorial  voices  seemed 
^merged  in  one  dreamy  indeterminate  hum.  It  con¬ 
veyed  to  my  soul  the  idea  of  revolution,  perhaps  from 
its  association  in  fancy  with  the  burr  of  a  mill-wheel. 
This  only  for  a  brief  period;  for  presently  I  heard  no 
more.  Yet,  for  a  while,  I  saw ;  but  with  how  terrible 
an  exaggeration !  I  saw  the  lips  of  the  black-robed 

*  By  permission  of  H.  S.  Stone  &  Co. 

117 


118 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


judges.  They  appeared  to  me  white,  whiter  than  the  i 
sheet  upon  which  I  trace  these  words,  and  thin  even 
to  grotesqueness ;  thin  with  the  intensity  of  their  ex¬ 
pression  of  firmness,  —  of  immovable  resolution,  of 
stern  contempt  of  human  torture.  I  saw  that  the  de¬ 
crees  of  what  to  me  was  Tate  were  still  issuing  from 
those  lips.  I  saw  them  writhe  with  a  deadly  locution. 

I  saw  them  fashion  the  syllables  of  my  name ;  and  I 
shuddered  because  no  sound  succeeded.  I  saw,  too, 
for  a  few  moments  of  delirious  horror,  the  soft  and 
nearly  imperceptible  waving  of  the  sable  draperies 
which  enwrapped  the  walls  of  the  apartment.  And 
then  my  vision  fell  upon  the  seven  tall  candles  upon 
the  table.  At  first  they  wore  the  aspect  of  charity, 
and  seemed  white  slender  angels  who  would  save  me; 
but  then,  alt  at  once,  there  came  a  most  deadly  nausea 
over  my  spirit,  and  I  felt  every  fibre  in  my  frame  thrill 
as  if  I  had  touched  the  wire  of  a  galvanic  battery, 
while  the  angel  forms  became  meaningless  spectres, 
with  heads  of  flame,  and  I  saw  that  from  them  there 
would  be  no  help.  And  then  there  stole  into  my 
fancy,  like  a  rich  musical  note,  the  thought  of  what 
sweet  rest  there  must  be  in  the  grave.  The  thought 
came  gently  and  stealthily,  and  it  seemed  long  before 
it  attained  full  appreciation;  but  just  as  my  spirit 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM  119 

o.ame  at  length  properly  to  feel  and  entertain  it,  the  C 
figures  of  the  judges  vanished,  as  if  magically,  from 
before  me  ^  the  tall  candles  sanh  into  nothingness  j 
their  flames  went  out  utterly ;  the  blackness  of  dark¬ 
ness  supervened;  all  sensations  appeared  swallowed 
up  in  a  mad  rushing  descent  as  of  the  soul  into 
Hades.  Then  silence,  and  stillness,  and  night  were 
the  universe. 

I  had  swooned ;  but  still  will  not  say  that  all  of  con¬ 
sciousness  was  lost.  What  of  it  there  remained  I  will 
not  attempt  to  define,  or  even  to  describe ;  yet  all  was 
not  lost.  In  the  deepest  slumber  —  no  !  In  delirium 
•—no!  In  a  swoon  —  no!  In  death  — no!  even  in 
the  grave  all  is  not  lost.  Else  there  is  no  immortality 
for  man.  Arousing  from  the  most  profound  of  slum¬ 
bers,  we  break  the  gossamer  web  of  some  dream.  Yet 
in  a  second  afterward  (so  frail  may  that  web  have 
I  been)  we  remember  not' that  we  have  dreamed.  In 
the  return  to  life  from  the  swoon  there  are  two  stages  : 
first,  that  of  the  sense  of  mental  or  spiritual,  secondly, 
that  of  the  sense  of  physical,  existence.  It  seems 
probable  that  if,  upon  reaching  the  second  stage,  we' 
could  recall  the  impressions  of  the  first,  we  should  find 
these  impressions  eloquent  in  memories  of  the  gulf 
beyond.  And  that  gulf  is  —  what  ?  How  at  least 


120  THE  PIT  AND  THE  PEi'^DULUM 

shall  we  distinguish  its  shadows  fron'  those  of  the  |: 
tomb  ?  But  if  the  impressions  of  what  I  have  termed 
the  first  stage  are  not  at  will  recalled,  yet,  after  a  long  ||: 
interval,  do  they  not  come  unbidden,  while  we  marvel  1 
whence  they  come?  He  who  has  never  swooned  is  | 
not  he  who  finds  strange  palaces  and  wildly  familiar  i 
faces  in  coals  that  glow ;  is  not  he  who  beholds  float¬ 
ing  in  mid-air  the  sad  visions  that  the  many  may  not 
view ;  is  not  he  who  ponders  over  the  perfume  of  some 
novel  flower ;  is  not  he  whose  brain  grows  bewildered 
with  the  meaning  of  some  musical  cadence  which  has  ; 
never  before  arrested  his  attention.  •  i 

Amid  frequent  and  thoughtful  endeavors  to  remem-  j 
ber,  amid  earnest  struggles  to  regather  some  token  of  ^ 
the  state  of  seeming  nothingness  into  which  my  soul  ' 
had  lapsed,  there  have  been  moments  when  I  have  { 
dreamed  of  success ;  there  have  been  brief,  very  brief  ' 
periods  when  I  have  conjured  up  remembrances  which 
the  lucid  reason  of  a  later  epoch  assures  me  could  ji 
have  had  reference  only  to  that  condition  of  seeming  ] 
unconsciousness.  These  shadows  of  memory  tell,  in-  : 
distinctly,  of  tall  figures  that  lifted  and  bore  me  in 
silence  down  —  down  —  still  down  —  till  a  hideous  | 
dizziness  oppressed  me  at  the  mere  idea  of  the  inter-  j 
minableness  of  the  descent.  They  tell  also  of  a  vague  [ 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


121 


'  horror  at  my  heart,  on  account  of  that  heart’s  unnatu- 
1  ral  stillness.  Then  comes  a  sense  'of  sudden  motion¬ 
lessness  throughout  all  things ;  as  if  those  who  bore 
1  me  (a  ghastly  train !)  had  outrun  in  their  descent  the 
limits  of  the  limitless,  and  paused  from  the  wearisome¬ 
ness  of  their  toil.  After  this  I  call  to  mind  flatness 
.and  dampness;  and  then  all  is  madness  —  the  mad¬ 
ness  of  a  memory  which  busies  itself  among  forbidden 
!  things. 

Very  suddenly  there  came  back  to  my  soul  motion 
and  sound  —  the  tumultuous  motion  of  the  heart,  and, 
in  my  ears,  the  sound  of  its  beating.  Then  a  pause 
in  which  all  is  blank.  Then  again  sound,  and  motion, 
and  touch  —  a  tingling  sensation  pervading  my  frame. 
Then  the  mere  consciousness  of  existence,  without 
thought  —  a  condition  which  lasted  long.  Then,  very 
suddenly,  thought,  and  shuddering  terror,  and  ear¬ 
nest  endeavor  to  comprehend  my  true  state.  Then 
a  strong  desire  to  lapse  into  insensibility.  Then  a 
rushing  revival  of  soul  and  a  successful  effort  to  move. 
And  now  a  full  memory  of  the  trial,  of  the  judges,  of 
the  sable  draperies,  of  the  sentence,  of  the  sickness, 
of  the  swoon.  Then  entire  forgetfulness  of  all  that 
followed ;  of  all  that  a  later  day  and  much  earnestness 
of  endeavor  have  enabled  me  vaguely  to  recall. 


S' 


I 

i 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


(K. 


122  THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 

^  So  far,  I  had  not  opened  my  eyes.  I  felt  that  I  lay 
upon  my  back  unbound.  I  reached  out  my  hand,  and 
it  fell  heavily  upon  something  damp  and  hard.  There 
I  suffered  it  to  remain  for  many  minutes,  while  I  strove 
to  imagine  where  and  ichat  I  could  be.  I  longed  yet 
dared  not  to  employ  my  vision.  I  dreaded  the  first 
glance  at  objects  around  me.  It  was  not  that  I  feared 
to  look  upon  things  horrible,  but  that  !  grew  aghast 
lest  there  should  be  nothing  to  see.  At  length,  with 
a  wild  desperation  at  heart,  I  quickly  unclosed  my 
eyes.  My  worst  thoughts,  then,  were  confirmed.  The 
blackness  of  eternal  night  encompassed  me.  I  strug¬ 
gled  for  breath.  The  intensity  of  the  darkness  seemed 
to  oppress  and  stifle  me.  The  atmosphere  was  intol¬ 
erably  close.  I  still  lay  quietly,  and  made  effort  to 
exercise  my  reason.  I  brought  to  mind  the  inquisi¬ 
torial  proceedings,  and  attempted  from  that  point  to 
deduce  my  real  condition.  The  sentence  had  passed; 
and  it  appeared  to  me  that  a  very  long  interval  of 
time  had  since  elapsed.  Yet  not  for  a  moment  did  I 
suppose  myself  actually  dead.  Such  a  supposition, 
notwithstanding  what  we  read  in  fiction,  is  altogether 
inconsistent  with  real  existence; — but  where  and  in 
what  state  was  I  ?  The  condemned  to  death,  I  knew, 
perished  usually  at  the  autos-da-f4°  and  one  of  these 


I 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


123 


Ihad  been  held  on  the  very  night  of  the  day  of  my  trial. 
Had  I  been  remanded  to  my  dungeon  to  await  the 
inext  sacrifice,  which  would  not  take  place  for  many 
1  months  ?  This  I  at  once  saw  could  not  be.  Victims 
1  had  been  in  immediate  demand.  Moreover,  my  dun- 
!  geon,  as  well  as  all  the  condemned  cells  at  Toledo,  had 
stone  floors,  and  light  was  not  altogether  excluded. 

A  fearful  idea  now  suddenly  drove  the  blood  in  tor¬ 
rents  upon  my  heart,  and  for  a  brief  period  I  once 
more  relapsed  into  insensibility.  Upon  recovering,  I 
!  at  once  started  to  my  feet,  trembling  convulsively  in 
every  fibre.  I  thrust  my  arms  wildly  above  and  around 
me  in  all  directions.  I  felt  nothing ;  yet  dreaded  to 
move  a  step,  lest  I  should  be  impeded  by  the  walls 
of  a  tomb.  Perspiration  burst  from  every  pore,  and 
stood  in  cold  big  beads  upon  my  forehead.  The  agony 
of  suspense  grew  at  length  intolerable,  and  I  cautiously 
moved  forward,  with  my  arms  extended,  and  my  eyej"°^^ 
straining  from  their  sockets,  in  the  hope  of  catching 
some  faint  ray  of  light.  I  proceeded  for  many  paces; 
but  still  all  was  blackness  and  vacancy.  I  breathed 
more  freely.  It  seemed  evident  that  mine  was  not,  at 
least,  the  most  hideous  of  fates. 

And,  now,  as  I  still  continued  to  step  cautiously 
onward,  there  came  thronging  upon  my  recollection  a 


124 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


thousand  vague  rumors  of  the  horrors  of  Toledo.  Of 
the  dungeons  there  had  been  strange  things  narrated 
—  fables  I  had  always  deemed  them  —  but  yet  strange, 
and  too  ghastly  to  repeat,  save  in  a  whisper.  Was  I 
left  to  perish  of  starvation  in  this  subterranean  world 
of  darkness ;  or  what  fate,  perhaps  even  more  fearful, 
awaited  me  ?  That  the  result  would  be  death,  and  a 
death  of  more  than  customary  bitterness,  I  knew  too 
well  the  character  of  my  judges  to  doubt.  The  mode 
and  the  hour  were  all  that  occupied  or  distracted 
me. 

My  outstretched  hands  at  length  encountered  some 
solid  obstruction.  It  was  a  wall,  seemingly  of  stone 
masonry  —  very  smooth,  slimy,  and  cold.  I  followed 
it  up ;  stepping  with  all  the  careful  distrust  with  which 
certain  antique  narratives  had  inspired  me.  This 
process,  however,  afforded  me  no  means  of  ascertain¬ 
ing  the  dimensions  of  my  dungeon ;  as  I  might  make 
its  circuit,  and  return  to  the  point  whence  I  set  out, 
without  being  aware  of  the  fact,  so  perfectly  uniform 
seemed  the  wall.  I  therefore  sought  the  knife  which 
had  been  in  my  pocket  when  led  into  the  inquisitorial 
chamber ;  but  it  was  gone ;  my  clothes  had  been  ex¬ 
changed  for  a  wrapper  of  coarse  serge.  I  had  thought 
of  forcing  the  blade  in  some  minute  crevice  of  the 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM  125 

masonry,  so  as  to  identify  my  point  of  departure.  The 
difficulty,  nevertheless,  was  but  trivial ;  although,  in 
the  disorder  of  my  fancy,  it  seemed  at  first  insuperable. 

I  tore  a  part  of  the  hem  from  the  robe  and  placed  the 
fragment  at  full  length,  and  at  right  angles  to  the  wall. 
In  groping  my  way  around  the  prison  I  could  not  fail 
to  encounter  this  rag  upon  completing  the  circuit.  So, 
at  least,  I  thought ;  but  I  had  not  counted  upon  the 
extent  of  the  dungeon,  or  upon  my  own  weakness. 
The  ground  was  moist  and  slippery.  I  staggpred 
onward  for  some  time,  when  I  stumbled  and  fell.  My 
excessive  fatigue  induced  me  to  rertiain  prostrate  5  and 
sleep  soon  overtook  me  as  I  lay. 

Upon  awaking,  and  stretching  forth  an  arm,  I  found 
beside  me  a  loaf  and  a  pitcher  with  water.  I  was  too 
much  exhausted  to  reflect  upon  this  circumstance,  but 
ate  and  drank  with  avidity.  Shortly  afterward,  I  re¬ 
sumed  my  tour  around  the  prison,  and  with  much  toil 
came  at  last  upon  the  fragment  of  the  serge.  Up  to 
the  period  when  I  fell,  I  had  counted  fifty-two  paces, 
and,  upon  resuming  my  walk,  I  had  counted  forty-eight 
more  —  when  I  arrived  at  the  rag.  There  were  in  all, 
then,  a  hundred  paces;  and,  admitting  two  paces  to 
the  yard,  I  presumed  the  dungeon  to  be  fifty  yards 
in  circuit.  I  had  met,  however,  with  many  angles  in 


126 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


the  wall,  and  thus  I  could  form  no  guess  at  the  shape 
of  the  vault ;  for  vault  I  could  not  help  supposing 
to  be. 

I  had  little  object  —  certainly  no  hope  —  in  these 
researches ;  but  a  vague  curiosity  prompted  me  to 
continue  them.  Quitting  the  wall,  I  resolved  to  cross 
the  area  of  the  enclosure.  At  first,  I  proceeded  with 
extreme  caution,  for  the  floor,  although  seemingly  of 
solid  material,  was  treacherous  with  slime.  At  length, 
how-ever,  I  took  courage,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  step 
firmly  —  endeavoring  to  cross  in  as  direct  a  line  as 
possible.  I  had  advanced  some  ten  or  twelve  paces 
in  this  manner,  when  the  remnant  of  the  torn  hem 
of  my  robe  became  entangled  between  my  legs.  I 
stepped  on  it  and  fell  violently  on  my  face. 

In  the  confusion  attending  my  fall,  I  did  not  imme¬ 
diately  apprehend  a  somewhat  startling  circumstance, 
which  yet,  in  a  few  seconds  afterward,  and  while  I 
still  lay  prostrate,  arrested  my  attention.  It  was  this  : 
my  chin  rested  upon  the  floor  of  the  prison  but,  my 
lips  and  the  upper  portion  of  my  head,  although  seem- 
^  i^ss  elevation  than  the  chin,  touched  noth¬ 
ing.  At  the  same  time,  my  forehead  seemed  bathed 
in  a  clammy  vapor,  and  the  peculiar  smell  of  decayed 
fungus  arose  to  my  nostrils.  I  put  forward  my  arm, 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


127 


and  shuddered  to  find  that  I  had  fallen  at  the  very 
brink  of  a  circular  pit,  whose  extent,  of  course,  I  had 
no  means  of  ascertaining  at  the  moment.  Groping 
about  the  masonry  just  below  the  margin,  I  succeeded 
in  dislodging  a  small  fragment,  and  let  it  fall  into  the 
abyss.  For  many  seconds  I  hearkened  to  its  rever¬ 
berations  as  it  dashed  against  the. sides  of  the  chasm 
in  its  descent;  at  length  there  was  a  sullen  plunge 
into  water,  succeeded  by  loud  echoes.  At  the  same 
moment  there  came  a  sound  resembling  the  quick 
opening  and  as  rapid  closing  of  a  door  overhead, 
while  a  faint  gleam  of  light  flashed  suddenly  through 
the  gloom,  and  as  suddenly  faded  away. 

I  saw  clearly  the  doom  which  had  been  prepared 
for  me,  and  congratulated  myself  upon  the  timely  acci¬ 
dent  by  which  I  had  escaped.  Another  step  before- 
my  fall,  and  the  world  had  seen  me  no  more.  And 
the  death  just  avoided  was  of  that  very^  character 
which  I  had  regarded  as  fabulous  and  frivolous  in  the 
tales  respecting  the  Inquisition.  To  the  victims  of  its 
tyranny  there  was  the  choice  of  death  with  its  direst 
physical  agonies,  or  death  with  its  most  hideous  moral 
horrors.  I  had  been  reserved  for  the  latter.  By  long 
suffering  my  nerves  had  been  unstrung,  until  I  trem¬ 
bled  at  the  sound  of  my  own  voice,  and  had  become 


128 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 

in  every  respect  a  fitting  subject  for  the  species  of 
torture  which  awaited  me. 

Shaking  in  every  limb,  I  groped  my  way  back  to  the 
wall  —  resolving  there  to  perish  rather  than  risk  the 
terrors  of  the  wells,  of  which  my  imagination  now  pic¬ 
tured  many  in  various  positions  about  the  dungeon. 
In  other  conditions  of  mind,  I  might  have  had  courage 
to  end  my  misery  at  once,  by  a  plunge  into  one  of 
these  abysses ;  but  now  I  was  the  veriest  of  cowards. 
Neither  could  I  forget  what  I  had  read  of  these  pits 
—  that  the  sudden  extinction  of  life  formed  no  part  of 
their  most  horrible  plan. 

Agitation  of  spirit  kept  me  awake  for  many  long 
hours ;  but  at  length  I  again  slumbered.  Upon  arous¬ 
ing,  I  found  by  my  side,  as  before,  a  loaf  and  a 
pitcher  of  water.  A  burning  thirst  consumed  me,  and 
I  emptied  the  vessel  at  a  draught.  It  must  have  been 
drugged  —  for  scarcely  had  I  drunk,  before  I  became 
irresistibly  drowsy.  A  deep  sleep  fell  upon  me  —  a 
sleep  like  that  of  death.  How  long  it  lasted,  of  course 
I  know  not;  but,  when  once  again  I  unclosed  my 
eyes,  the  objects  around  me  were  visible.  By  a  wild, 
sulphurous  lustre,  the  origin  of  which  I  could  not  at 

first  determine,  I  was  enabled  to  see  the  extent  and 

» 

aspect  of  the  prison. 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


129 


In  its  size  I  had  been  greatly  mistaken.  The  whole 
circuit  of  its  walls  did  not  exceed  twenty-five  yards. 
For  some  minutes  this  fact  occasioned  .me  a  world  of 
vain  trouble ;  vain  indeed  —  for  what  could  be  of  less 
importance,  under  the  terrible  circumstances  which 


i  7  ^  ^  I  ' 

pn \ri vrkTiPfl  rnp.  t.Tia.Ti  thp,  mere  dimensions  of  mv  dun-  iti.v  1 


geon  ?  But  my  soul  took  a  wild  interest  in  trifles,  and 
I  busied  myself  in  endeavors  to  account  for  the  error 
I  had  committed  in  my  measurement.  The  truth  at 


^ration  I  had  counted  fifty-two  paces,  up  to  the  period 
'when  I  fell :  I  must  then  have  been  within  a  pace  or 
two  of  the  fragment  of  serge;  in  fact,  I  had  nearly 
performed  the  circuit  of  the  vault.  I  then  slept 
and,i  upon  awaking^  I  must  have  returned  upon  my 
steps,  thus  supposing  the  circuit  nearly  double  what 
it  actually  was.  My  confusion  of  mind  prevented 
me  from  observing  that  I  began  my  tour  with  the 
wall  to  the  left,  and  ended  it  with  the  wall  to  the 
right. 

I  had  been  deceived,  too,  in  respect  to  the  shape  of 
the  enclosure.  In  feeling  my  way,  I  had  found  many 
angles,  and  thus  deduced  an  idea  of  great  irregularity ; 
so  potent  is  the  effect  of  total  darkness  upon  one 


arousing  from  lethargy  or  sleep!  The  angles  were 


K 


I 


130 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


simply  those  of  a  few  slight  depressions,  or  niches,  at 
odd  intervals.  The  general  shape  of  the  prison  was 
square.  What  I  had  taken  for  masonry,  seemed  now 
to  be  iron,  or  some  other  metal,  in  huge  plates,  whose 
sutures  or  joints  occasioned  the  depression.  The 
entire  surface  of  this  metallic  enclosure  was  rudely 
daubed  in  all  the  hideous  and  repulsive  devices  to 
which  the  charnel  superstition  of  the  monks  has  given 
rise.  The  figures  of  fiends  in  aspects  of  menace,  with 
skeleton  forms,  and  other  more  really  fearful  images, 
overspread  and  disfigured  the  walls.  I  observed  that 
the  outlines  of  these  monstrosities  were  sufficiently 
distinct,  but  that  the  colors  seemed  faded  and  blurred, 
as  if  from  the  effects  of  a  damp  atmosphere.  I  now 
noticed  the  floor,  too,  which  was  of  stone.  In  the 
centre  yawned  the  circular  pit  from  whose  jaws  I  had 
escaped ;  but  it  was  the  only  one  in  the  dungeon. 

All  this  I  saw  distinctly  and  by  much  effort,  for  my 
personal  condition  had  been  greatly  changed  during 
slumber.  I  now  lay  upon  my  back,  and  at  full  length, 
on  a  species  of  low  framework  of  wood.  To  this  I  was 
securely  bound  by  a  long  strap  resembling  a  surcingle. 
It  passed  in  many  convolutions  about  my  limbs  and 
body,  leaving  at  liberty  only  my  head,  and  my  left 
arm  to  such  extent  that  I  could,  by  dint  of  much  exer- 


i 

•  THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM  131 

.  tion,  supply  myself  with  food  from  an  earthen  dish 
which  lay  by  my  side  on  the  floor.  I  saw,  to  my 
!  horror,  that  the  pitcher  had  been  removed.  I  say,  to 
my  horror  —  for  I  was  consumed  with  intolerable 
thirst.  This  thirst  it  appeared  to  be  the  design  of  my 
,  persecutors  to  stimulate,  for  the  food  in  the  dish  was 
I  meat  pungently  seasoned. 

I  Looking  upward,  I  surveyed  the  ceiling  of  my 
prison.  It  was  some  thirty  or  forty  feet  overhead, 
and  constructed  much  as  the  side  walls.  In  one  of 
its  panels  a  very  singular  figure  riveted  my  whole 
attention.  It  was  the  painted  figure  of  Time  as  he  is 
commonly  represented,  save  that,  in  lieu  of  a  scythe, 
he  held  what,  at  a  casual  glance,  I  supposed  to  be  the 
pictured  image  of  a  huge  pendulum,  such  as  we  see  on 
antique  clocks.  There  was  something,  however,  in 
the  appearance  of  this  machine  which  caused  me  to 
regard  it  more  attentively.  While  I  gazed  directly 
upward  at  it  (for  its  position  was  immediately  over 
my  own),  I  fancied  that  I  saw  it  in  motion.  In  an 
instant  afterward  the  fancy  was  confirmed.  Its  sweep 
was  brief,  and  of  course  slow.  I  watched  it  for  some 
minutes,  somewhat  in  fear,  but  more  in  wonder. 
Wearied  at  length  with  observing  its  dull  movement, 
I  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  other  objects  in  the  cell. 


I 


132  THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 

A  slight  noise  attracted  my  notice,  and,  looking  to 
the  floor,  I  saw  several  enormous  rats  traversing  it.  i. 

They  had  issued  from  the  well,  which  lay  just  within  ^  j 

view  to  my  right.  Even  then,  while  I  gazed,  they  j] 

came  up  in  troops,  hurriedly,  with  ravenous  eyes,  i 

allured  by  the  scent  of  the  meat.  Erom  this  it  re-  i| 

quired  much  effort  and  attention  to  scare  them  away. 

It  might  have  been  half  an  hour,  perhaps  even  an 
hour  (for  I  could  take  but  imperfect  note  of  time), 
before  I  again  cast  my  eyes  upward.  What  I  then 
saw,  confounded  and  amazed  me.  The  sweep  of  the  j 
pendulum  had  increased  in  extent  by  nearly  a  yard.  I 
As  a  natural  consequence,  its  velocity  was  also  much  ^ 
greater.  But  what  mainly  disturbed  me,  was  the  idea  i 
that  it  had  perceptibly  descended.  I  now  observed —  ! 

with  what  horror  it  is  needless  to  say  —  that  its  nether  ■ 
extremity  was  formed  of  a  crescent  of  glittering  steel,  j 
about  a  foot  in  length  from  horn  to  horn ;  the  horns  1 
upward,  and  the  under  edge  evidently  as  keen  as  that  | 
of  a  razor.  Like  a  razor  also,  it  seemed  massy  and  ^ 
heavy,  tapering  from  the  edge  into  a  solid  and  broad  | 
structure.  It  was  appended  to  a  weighty  rod  of  brass,  " 
and  the  whole  hissed  as  it  swung  through  the  air.  \ 

I  could  no  longer  doubt  the  doom  prepared  for  me  \ 
by  monkish  ingenuity  in  torture.  My  cognizance  of  | 

) 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


133 


tthe  pit  had  become  known  to  the  inquisitorial  agents 
—  the  pit,  whose  horrors  had  been  destined  for  so  bold 
a  recusant  as  myself  —  the  pit,  typical  of  hell,  and 
rregarded  by  rumor  as  the  Ultima  Thule  of  all  their 
{punishments.  The  plunge  into  this  pit  I  had  avoided 
by  the  merest  of  accidents,  and  I  knew  that  surprise, 
or  entrapment  into  torment,  formed  an  important  por¬ 
tion  of  all  the  grotesquerie  of  these  dungeon  deaths. 

1  Having  failed  to  fall,  it  was  no  part  of  the  demon 
]  plan  to  hurl  me  into  the  abyss ;  and  thus  (there  being 
ino  alternative),  a  different  and  a  milder  destruction 
.  awaited  ]ne.  Milder !  I  half  smiled  in  my  agony  as 
I  thought  of  such  application  of  such  a  term. 

What  boots  it  to  tell  of  the  long,  long  hours  of 
horror  more  than  mortal,  during  which  I  counted  the 
rushing  oscillations  of  the  steel !  Inch  by  inch  —  line 
I  by  line  —  with  a  descent  only  appreciable  at  intervals 
that  seemed  ages  —  down  and  still  down  it  came ! 
Days  passed  —  it  might  have  been  that  many  days 
passed  —  ere  it  swept  so  closely  over  me  as  to  fan  me 
with  its  acrid  breath.  The  odor  of  the  sharp  steel 
forced  itself  into  my  nostrils.  I  prayed  —  I  wearied 
heaven  with  my  prayer  for  its  more  speedy  descent. 
I  grew  frantically  mad,  and  struggled  to  force  myself 
upward  against  the  sweep  of  the  fearful  cimeter. 


134 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


And  then  I  fell  suddenly  calm,  and  lay  smiling  at  the 
glittering  death,  as  a  child  at  some  rare  bawble. 

There  was  another  interval  of  utter  insensibility ;  it 
was  brief ;  for,  upon  again  lapsing  into  life,  there  had 
been  no  perceptible  descent  in  the  pendulum.  But  it 
might  have  been  long ;  for  I  knew  there  were  demonS 
who  took  note  of  my  swoon,  and  who  could  have 
arrested  the  vibration  at  pleasure.  Upon  my  recov¬ 
ery,  too,  I  felt  very  —  oh,  inexpressibly  —  sick  and 
weak,  as  if  through  long  .inanition.  Even  amid  the 
agonies  of  that  period  the  human  nature  craved  food. 
With  painful  effort,  I  outstretched  my  left  arm  as  far 
as  my  bonds  permitted,  and  took  possession  of  the 
small  remnant  which  had  been  spared  me  by  the  rats. 
As  I  put  a  portion  of  it  within  my  lips,  there  rushed 
to  my  mind  a  half-formed  thought  of  joy  —  of  hope. 
Yet  what  business  had  I  with  hope  ?  It  was,  as  I 
say,  a  half -formed  thought :  man  has  many  such, 
which  are  never  completed.  I  felt  that  it  was  of  joy 
—  of  hope;  but  I  felt  also  that  it  had  perished  in  its 
formation.  In  vain  I  struggled  to  perfect  —  to  regain 
it.  Long  suffering  had  nearly  annihilated  all  my 
ordinary  powers  of  mind.  I  was  an  imbecile  —  an 
idiot. 

The  vibration  of  the  pendulum  was  at  right  angles 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


135 


to  my  lergth..  I  saw  that  the  crescent  was  designed 
I  to  cross  the  region  of  the  heart.  It  would  fray  the 
serge  of  my  robe  —  it  would  return  and  repeat  its 
operations  —  again — and  again.  Notwithstanding  its 
terrifically  wide  sweep  (some  thirty  feet  or  more),  and 
I  ‘T;he  hissing  vigor  of  its  descent,  sufficient  to  sunder 
!  these  very  walls  of  iron,  still  the  fraying  of  my  robe 
i  would  be  all  that,  for  several  minutes,  it  would  accom¬ 
plish.  And  at  this  thought  I  paused.  I  dared  not  go 
farther  than  this  reflection.  I  dwelt  upon  it  with  a 
pertinacity  of  attention  —  as  if  in  so  dwelling,  I  could 
arrest  here  the  descent  of  the  steel.  I  forced  myself 
to  ponder  upon  the  sound  of  the  crescent  as  it  should 
pass  across  the  garment  —  upon  the  peculiar  thrilling 
sensation  which  the  friction  of  cloth  produces  on  the 
nerves.  I  pondered  upon  all  this  frivolity  until  my 
teeth  were  on  edge. 

Down  —  steadily  down  it  crept.  I  took  a  frenzied 
pleasure  in  contrasting  its  downward  with  its  lateral 
velocity.  To  the  right  —  to  the  left  —  far  and  wide 
—  with  the  shriek  of  a  damned  spirit !  to  my  heart, 
with  the  stealthy  pace  of  the  tiger!  I  alternately 
laughed  and  howled,  as  the  one  or  the  other  idea 
grew  predominant. 

Down  —  certainly,  relentlessly  down!  It  vibrated 


136 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


.  .  .  ^  "i 

within  three  inches  of  my  bosom !  I  struggled  vio¬ 
lently —  furiously  —  to  free  my  left  arm.  This  was  .| 
free  only  from  the  elbow  to  the  hand.  I  could  reach  } 
the  latter  from  the  platter  beside  me  to  my  mouth, 
with  great  effort,  but  no  farther.  Could  I  have  broken 
the  fastenings  above  the  elbow,  I  would  have  seized 
and  attempted  to  arrest  the  pendulum.  I  might  as 
well  have  attempted  to  arrest  an  avalanche ! 

Down  —  still  unceasingly  —  still  inevitably  down  ! 

I  gasped  and  struggled  at  each  vibration.  I  shrunk 
convulsively  at  its  every  sweep.  My  eyes  followed  its 
outward  or  upward  whirls  with  the  eagerness  of  the 
most  unmeaning  despair ;  they  closed  themselves  spas¬ 
modically  at  the  descent,  although  death  would  have 
been  a  relief,  oh,  how  unspeakable !  Still  I  quivered 
in  every  nerve  to  think  how  slight  a  sinking  of  the 
machinery  would  precipitate  that  keen,  glistening  axe 
upon  my  bosom.'  It  was  hope  that  prompted  the 
nerve  to  quiver  —  the  frame  to  shrink.  It  was  hope 
—  the  hope  that  triumphs  on  the  rack  —  that  whispers 
to  the  death-condemned  even  in  the  dungeons  of  the 
Inquisition. 

I  saw  that  some  ten  or  twelve  vibrations  would 
bring  the  steel  in  actual  contact  with  my  robe;  and 
with  this  observation  there  suddenly  came  over  my 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM  137 

spirit  all  the  keen,  collected  calmness  of  despair.  For 
the  first  time  during  many  hours  —  or  perhaps  days  — 
I  thought.  It  now  occurred  to  me,  that  the  bandage, 
or  surcingle,  which  enveloped  me,  was  unique.  I  was 
tied  by  no  separate  cord.  The  first  stroke  of  the 
razor-like  cresent  athwart  any  portion  of  the  band 
would  so  detach  it  that  it  might  be  unwound  from  my 
person  by  means  of  my  left  hand.  But  how  fearful, 
in  that  case,  the  proximity  of  the  steel !  The  result 
of  the  slightest  struggle,  how  deadly !  Was  it  likely, 
moreover,  that  the  minions  of  the  torturer  had  not 
foreseen  and  provided  for  this  possibility  ?  Was  it 
probable  that  the  bandage  crossed  my  bosom  in  the 
track  of  the  pendulum?  Dreading  to  find  my  faint, 
and,  as  it  seemed,  my  last  hope  frustrated,  I  so  far 
elevated  my  head  as  to  obtain  a  distinct  view  of  my 
breast.  The  surcingle  enveloped  my  limbs  and  body 
close  in  all  directions  —  save  in  the  path  of  the  destroy- 
ing  crescent. 

Scarcely  had  I  dropped  my  head  back  into  its 
original  position,  when  there  flashed  upon  my  mind 
what  I  cannot  better  describe  than  as  the  unformed 
half  of  that  idea  of  deliverance  to  which  I  have 
previously  alluded,  and  of  which  a  moiety  only  floated 
indeterminately  through  my  brain  when  I  raised  food 


138  THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM  1 

to  my  burning  lips.  The  whole  thought  was  now  ^ 
present  —  feeble,  scarcely  sane,  scarcely  definite  —  j 
but  still  entire.  I  proceeded  at  once,  with  the  ner¬ 
vous  energy  of  despair,  to  attempt  its  execution. 

For  many  hours  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  low 
framework  upon  which  I  lay  had  been  literally  swarm¬ 
ing  with  rats.  They  were  wild,  bold,  ravenous  —  their 
red  eyes  glaring  upon  me  as  if  they  waited  but  for 
motionlessness  on  my  part  to  make  me  their  prey. 

To  what  food,’’  I  thought,  have  they  been  accus¬ 
tomed  in  the  well  ?  ” 

They  had  devoured,  in  spite  of  all  my  efforts  to  pre-  ! 
vent  them,  all  but  a  small  remnant  of  the  contents 
of  the  dish.  I  had  fallen  into  an  habitual  see-saw, 
or  wave  of  the  hand  about  the  platter;  and,  at  length, 
the  unconscious  uniformity  of  the  movement  deprived 
it  of  effect.  In  their  voracity  the  vermin  frequently 
fastened  their  sharp  fangs  in  my  fingers.  With  the 
particles  of  the  oily  and  spicy  viand  which  now  re¬ 
mained  I  thoroughly  rubbed  the  bandage  wherever  I 
could  reach  it ;  then,  raising  my  hand  from  the  floor, 

I  lay  breathlessly  still. 

At  first,  the  ravenous  animals  were  startled  and 
terrified  at  the  change  —  at  the  cessation  of  movement. 
They  shrank  alarmedly  back ;  many  sought  the  well.  I 


THE  PW  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


139 


[But  this  was  only  for  a  moment.  I  had  not  counted 
in  vain  upon  their  voracity.  Observing  that  I  re¬ 
mained  without  motion,  one  or  two  of  the  boldest 
leaped  upon  the  framework,  and  smelt  at  the  sur- 
I  cingle.  This  seemed  the  signal  for  a  general  rush. 
jlForth  from  the  well  they  hurried  in  fresh  troops. 

I  They  clung  to  the  wood  —  they  overran  it,  and  leaped 
[lin  hundreds  upon  my  person.  The  measured  move- 
iment  of  the  pendulum  disturbed  them  not  at  all. 
Avoiding  its  strokes,  they  busied  themselves  with 
tthe  anointed  bandage.  They  pressed — they  swarmed 
upon  me  in  ever  accumulating  heaps.  They  writhed 
upon  my  throat ;  their  cold  lips  sought  my  own ;  I 
was  half  stifled  by  their  thronging  pressure ;  disgust, 
1  for  which  the  world  has  no  name,  swelled  my  bosom, 

'  and  chilled,  with  a  heavy  clamminess,  my  heart.  Yet 
one  minute,  and  I  felt  that  the  struggle  would  be  over. 
Plainly  I  perceived  the  loosening  of  the  bandage.  I 
]  knew  that  in  more  than  one  place  it  must  be  already 
severed.  With  a  more  than  human  resolution  I  lay 
still. 

.  Nor  had  I  erred  in  my  calculations  —  nor  had  I 
endured  in  vain.  I  at  length  felt  that  I  was  free. 
The  surcingle  hung  in  ribbons  from  my  body.  But 
the  stroke  of  the  pendulum  already  pressed  upon  my 


140 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


bosom.  It  had  divided  the  serge  of  the  robe.  It  had  I 
cut  through  the  linen  beneath.  Twice  again  it  swung, 
and  a  sharp  sense  of  pain  shot  through  every  nerve. 
But  the  moment  of  escape  had  arrived.  At  a  wave  i 
of  my  hand  my  deliverers  hurried  tumultuously  away.  ! 
With  a  steady  movement  —  cautious,  sidelong,  shrink-  ' 
ing,  and  slow  —  I  slid  from  the  embrace  of  the  band-  I 

age  and  beyond  the  reach  of  the  cimeter.  For  the  ; 

■ 

moment,  at  least,  I  was  free.  ^ 

Free !  —  and  in  the  grasp  of  the  Inquisition !  I  ! 
had  scarcely  stepped  from  my  wooden  bed  of  horror 
upon  the  stone  floor  of  the  prison,  when  the  motion 
of  the  hellish  machine  ceased,  and  I  beheld  it  drawn 
up,  by  some  invisible  force,  through  the  ceiling*  This 
was  a  lesson  which  I  took  desperately  to  heart.  My 
every  motion  was  undoubtedly  watched.  Free! — I 
had  but  escaped  death  in  one  form  of  agony  to  be 
delivered  unto  worse  than  death  in  some  other.  With 
that  thought  I  rolled  my  eyes  nervously  around  on 
the  barriers  of  iron  that  hemmed  me  in.  Something 
unusual  —  some  change  which,  at  first,  I  could  not 
appreciate  distinctly — it  was  obvious,  had  taken  place 
in  the  apartment.  For  many  minutes  of  a  dreamy 
and  trembling  abstraction  I  busied  myself  in  vain, 
unconnected  conjecture.  During  this  period,  I  be- 


-mE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


ame  aware,  for  the  first  time,  of  the  origin  of  the 
ulphurous  light  which  illumined  the  cell.  It  prot 
■eeded  from  a  fissure,  about  half  an  inch  in  width 
xtendmg  entirely  around  the  prison  at  the  base  of 
lie  walls,  which  thus  appeared  and  were  completely' 
eparated  from  the  floor.  I  endeavored,  but  of  course 
1  vain,  to  look  through  the  aperture. 

As  I  arose  from  the  attempt,  the  mystery  of  the 
Iteration  in  the  chamber  broke  at  once  upon  my 
uderstanding.  I  have  observed  that,  although  the 
itlines  of  the  figures  upon  the  walls  were  suffi- 
ently^  distinct,  yet  the  colors  seemed  blurred  and  * 
idefinite.  These  colors  had  now  assumed,  and  were  I 
I  omentarily  assuming,  a  startling  and  most  intense  I 
fidlliancy ,  that  gave  to  the  spectral  and  fiendish  por- 
•  aitures  an  aspect  that  might  have  thrilled  even 
[  mer  nerves  than  my  own.  Demon  eyes,  of  a  wild 
id  ghastly  vivacity,  glared  upon  me  in  a  thousand  i 
rections,  where  none  had  been  visible  before,  and  ' 
earned  with^  the  lurid  lustre  of  a  fire  that  I  could 
>t  force  my  imagination  to  regard  as  unreal.  I 

C/hrea//  — Even  while  I  breathed  there  came  to  f 
y  nostrils  the  breath  of  the  vapor  of  heated  iron ! 
suffocating  odor  pervaded  the  prison.  A  deeper  ^ 
3W  settled  each  moment  in  the  eyes  that  glared 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


I'- 


at*  mv  agonies !  A  riclier  tint  of  crimson  diffused 
itseif  over  the  pictured  horrors  of  blood.  I  panted . 
I  gasped  for  breath !  There  could  be  no  doubt  of 
the  design  of  my  tormentors  —  oh,  most  unrelenting . 
oh,  most  demoniac  of  men  !  I  shrank  from  the  glow¬ 
ing  metal  to  the  centre  of  the  cell.  Amid  the  thought 
of  the  fiery  destruction  that  impended,  the  idea  o 
the  coolness  of  the  well  came  over  my  soul  like 
balm.  I  rushed  to  its  deadly  brink.  I  threw  my 
straining  vision  below.  The  glare  from  the  enkindled 
roof  illumined  its  inmost  recesses.  Yet,  for  a  wild 
moment,  did  my  spirit  refuse  to  comprehend  the 
meaning  of  what  I  saw.  At  length  it  forced  d 
wrestled  its  way  into  my  soul  —  it  burned  itself  ir 
upon  my  shuddering  reason.  Oh,  for  a  voice  to  speak 
_  oh,  horror  !  —  oh,  any  horror  but  this !  With  i 
shriek,  I  rushed  from  the  margin,  and  buried  my  faci 

in  my  hands  —  weeping  bitterly.  : 

The  heat  rapidly  increased,  and  once  again  I  looked 
up,  shuddering  as  with  a  fit  of  the  ague.  There  hai 
been  a  second  change  in  the  cell  —  and  now  the  chang 
was  obviously  in  the  form.  As  before,  it  was  in  vai 
that  I  at  first  endeavored  to  appreciate  or  understan 
what  was  taking  place.  But  not  long  was  I  left  i 
doubt.  The  Inquisitorial  vengeance  had  been  hurne 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


143 


by  my  twofold  escape,  and  there  was  to  be  no  more 
dallying  with  the  King  of  Terrors.  The  room  had 
been  square.  I  saw  that  two  of  its  iron  angles  were 
now  acute  —  two,  consequently,  obtuse.  The  fearful 
difference  quickly  increased  with  a  low  rumbling  or 
moaning  sound.  In  an  instant  the  apartment  had 
shifted  its  form  into  that  of  a  lozenge.  But  the  alter¬ 
ation  stopped  not  here  —  I  neither  hoped  nor  desired 
it  to  stop.  I  could  have  clasped  the  red  walls  to  my 
bosom  as  a  garment  of  eternal  peace.  ^^Death/^  I 
said,  any  death  but  that  of  the  pit !  Bool !  might 
I  not  have  known  that  into  the  pit  it  was  the  object  of 
the  burning  iron  to  urge  me  ?  Could  I  resist  its  glow? 
or  if  even  that,  could  I  withstand  its  pressure  ?  And 
now,  flatter  and  flatter  grew  the  lozenge,  with  a  rapid¬ 
ity  that  left  me  no  time  for  contemplation.  Its  cen¬ 
tre,  and,  of  course,  its  greatest  width,  came  just  over 
the  yawning  gulf.  I  shrank  back  —  but  the  closing 
walls  pressed  me  resistlessly  onward.  At  length  for 
my  seared  and  writhing  body  there  was  no  longer  an 
inch  of  foothold  on  the  firm  floor  of  the  prison.  I 
struggled  no  more,  but  the  agony  of  my  soul  found  vent 
in  one  loud,  long,  and  final  scream  of  despair.  I  felt 
that  I  tottered  upon  the  brink  —  I  averted  my  eyes  — 
There  was  a  discordant  hum  of  human  voices ! 


t' 

IS 


144 


THE  PIT  AND  THE  PENDULUM 


There  was  a  loud  blast  as  of  many  trumpets  !  There  1 
was  a  harsh  grating  as  of  a  thousand  thunders  !  The  I 
fiery  walls  rushed  back  !  An  outstretched  arm  caught-  I 
my  own  as  I  fell,  fainting,  into  the  abyss.  It  was  \ 
that  of  General  Lasalle.  The  French  army  had  en-  ; 
tered  Toledo.  The  Inquisition®  was  in  the  hands  of  ! 
its  enemies. 


•WILLIAM  WILSON” • 


What  say  of  it  ?  what  say  of  conscience  grim, 

That  spectre  in  my  path  ? 

Chamberlatne  :  Pharronida. 

Let  me  call  myself,  for  the  present,  William  Wil- 
5  son.  The  fair  page  now  lying  before  me  need  not 
I  be  sullied  with  my  real  appellation.  This  has  been 
i already  too  much  an  object  for  the  scorn  —  for  the 
1  horror  —  for  the  detestation  of  my  race.  To  the  utter- 
imost  regions  of  the  globe  have  not  the  indignant 
^ winds  bruited  its  unparalleled  infamy?  Oh,  outcast 
!  of  all  outcasts  most  abandoned !  —  to  the  earth  art 
tthou  not  forever  dead?  to  its  honors,  to  its  flowers, 
t  to  its  golden  aspirations  ?  —  and  a  cloud,  dense,  dis- 
imal,  and  limitless,  does  it  not  hang  eternally  between 
tthy  hopes  and  heaven  ? 

I  would  not,  if  I  could,  here  or  to-day,  embody  a 
I  record  of  my  later  years  of  unspeakable  misery  and 
I  unpardonable  crime.  This  epoch,  these  later  years, 
t  took  unto  themselves  a  sudden  elevation  in  turpitude, 
1  whose  origin  alone  it  is  my  present  purpose  to  assign. 

*  By  permission  of  H.  S.  Stone  &  Co. 
h  146 


146 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


Men  usually  grow  base  by  degrees.  From  me,  in  an  !  i 
instant,  all  virtue  dropped  bodily  as  a  mantle.  From  I 

comparatively  trivial  wickedness  I  passed,  with  the  I 

stride  of  a  giant,  into  more  than  the  enormities  of  I 
an  Elah-Gabalus.  What  chance  — what  one  event 
brought  this  evil  thing  to  pass,  bear  with  me  while  I 
relate.  Death  approaches;  and  the  shadow  which 
foreruns  him  has  thrown  a  softening  influence  over 
my  spirit.  I  long,  in  passing  through  the  dim  valley, 
for  the  sympathy  —  I  had  nearly  said  for  the  pity 
of  my  fellow-men.  I  would  fain  have  them  believe  ; 
that  I  have  been,  in  some  measure,  the  slave  of  cir¬ 
cumstances  beyond  human  control.  I  would  wish 
them  to  seek  out  for  me,  in  the  details  I  am  about  to 
give,  some  little  oasis  of  fatality  amid  a  wilderness  of 
error.  I  would  have  them  allow  —  what  they  cannot 
refrain  from  allowing  —  that,  although  temptation  may 
have  erewhile  existed  as  great,  man  was  never  thus, 
at  least,  tempted  before  —  certainly,  never  thus  fell. 
And  is  it  therefore  that  he  has  never  thus  suffered  ? 
Have  I  not  indeed  been  living  in  a  dream  ?  And  am  i 
I  not  now  dying  a  victim  to  the  horror  and  the  mys¬ 
tery  of  the  wildest  of  all  sublunary  visions  ? 

I  am  the  descendant  of  a  race  whose  imaginative 
and  easily  excitable  temperament  has  at  all  times 


r 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


147 


rrendered  them  remarkable;  and,  in  my  earliest  in¬ 
fancy,  I  gave  evidence  of  having  fully  inherited  the 
family  character.  As  I  advanced  in  years  it  was  more 
strongly  developed;  becoming,  for  many  reasons,  a 
i  cause  of  serious  disquietude  to  my  friends,  and  of 
positive  injury  to  myself.  I  grew  self-willed,  addicted 
tto  the  wildest  caprices,  and  a  prey  to  the  most  ungov- 
-ernable  passions.  Weak-minded,  and  beset  with  con¬ 
stitutional  infirmities  akin  to  my  own,  my  parents 
could  do  but  little  to  check  the  evil  propensities  which 
distinguished  me.  Some  feeble  and  ill-directed  efforts 
I  resulted  in  complete  failure  on  their  part,  and,  of 
course,  in  total  triumph  on  mine.  Thenceforward  my 
1  voice  was  a  household-  law;  and  at'  an  age  when  few 
children  have  abandoned  their  leading-strings  I  was 
Heft  to  the  guidance  of  my  own  will,  and  became,  in 
all  but  name,  the  master  of  my  own  actions.- 

My  earliest  recollections  of  a  school  life  are  con-’ 
I  nected  with  a  large,  rambling,  Elizabethan  house,  in  a 
1  mi  sty-looking  village  of  England,  where  were  a  vast 
I  number  of  gigantic  and  gnarled  trees,  and  where  allj 
Ithe  houses  were  excessively  ancient.  In  truth,  it  was 
a  dream-like  and  spirit-soothing  place,  that  venerable 
old  town.  At  this  moment,  in  fancy,  I  feel  the  re¬ 
freshing  chilliness  of  its  deeply  shadowed  avenues. 


A 


148 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


inhale  the  fragrance  of  its  thousand  shrubberies,  and 
thrill  anew  with  undefinable  delight  at  the  deep  hoi-  ■ 
low  note  of  the  church-bell,  breaking,  each  hour,  with  ' 
sullen  and  sudden  roar,  upon  the  stillness  of  the  dusky 
atmosphere  in  which  the  fretted  Gothic  steeple  lay  , 
imbedded  and  asleep. 

It  gives  me,  perhaps,  as  much  of  pleasure  as  I  can  i 
now  in  any  manner  experience  to  dwell  upon  minute  \ 
recollections  of  the  school  and  its  concerns.  Steeped 
in  misery  as  I  am  —  misery,  alas !  only  too  real  —  I  , 
shall  be  pardoned  for  seeking  relief,  however  slight  ’ 
and  temporary,  in  the  weakness  of  a  few  rambling 
details.  These,  moreover,  utterly  trivial,  and  even 
ridiculous  in  themselves,  assume  to  my  fancy  adventi¬ 
tious  importance,  as  connected  with  a  period  and  a 
locality  when  and  where  I  recognize  the  first  am¬ 
biguous  monitions  of  the  destiny  which  afterwards  so 
fully  overshadowed  me.  Let  me  then  remember. 

The  house,  I  have  said,  was  old  and  irregular. 
The  grounds  were  extensive,  and  a  high  and  solid 
brick  wall,  topped  with  a  bed  of  mortar  and  broken 
glass,  encompassed  the  whole.  This  prison-like  ram¬ 
part  formed  the  limit  of  our  domain ;  beyond  it  we 
saw  but  thrice  a  week  —  once  every  Saturday  after¬ 
noon,  when,  attended  by  two  ushers,  we  were  per-  > 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


149 


mitted  to  take  brief  walks  in  a  body  through  some  of 
the  neighboring  fields  —  and  twice  during  Sunday, 
when  we  were  paraded  in  the  same  formal  manner  to 
the  morning  and  evening  service  in  the  one  church 
of  the  village.  Of  this  church  the  principal  of  our 
school  was  pastor.  With  how  deep  a  spirit  of  wonder 
and  perplexity  was  I  wont  to  regard  him  from  our 
remote  pew  in  the  gallery,  as,  with  step  solemn  and 
slow,  he  ascended  the  pulpit !  This  reverend  man, 
with  countenance  so  demurely  benign,  with  robes  so 
glossy  and  so  clerically  fiowing,  with  wig  so  minutely 
powdered,  so  rigid  and  so  vast,  —  could  this  be  he 
who,  of  late,  with  sour  visage,  and  in  snuffy  habili¬ 
ments,  administered,  ferule  in  hand,  the  Draconian 
Laws  of  the  academy  ?  Oh,  gigantic  paradox,  too 
utterly  monstrous  for  solution ! 

At  an  angle  of  the  ponderous  wall  frowned  a  more 
ponderous  gate.  It  was  riveted  and  studded  with 
iron  bolts,  and  surmounted  with  jagged  iron  spikes. 
What  impressions  of  deep  awe  did  it  inspire !  It 
was  never  opened  save  for  the  three  periodical  egres¬ 
sions  and  ingressions  already  mentioned;  then,  in 
every  creak  of  its  mighty  hinges,  we  found  a  plenitude 
of  mystery  —  a  world  of  matter  for  solemn  remark,  or 
for  more  solemn  meditation. 


150 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


The  extensive  enclosure  was  irregular  in  form,  hav-  | 
ing  many  capacious  recesses.  Of  these,  three  or  four  | 
of  the  largest  constituted  the  play-ground.  It  was  j 
level,  and  covered  with  fine  hard  gravel.  I  well  re-  ; 
member  it  had  no  trees,  nor  benches,  nor  anything  ! 
similar  within  it.  Of  course  it  was  in  the  rear  of  the  i 
house.  In  front  lay  a  small  parterre,  planted  with 
box  and  other  shrubs;  but  through  this  sacred  divi-  i 
sion  we  passed  only  upon  rare  occasions  indeed  — 
such  as  a  first  advent  to  school  or  final  departure 
thence,  or  perhaps  when,  a  parent  or  friend  having 
called  for  us,  we  joyfully  took  our  way  home  for  the 
Christmas  or  Midsummer  holidays. 

But  the  house !  —  how  quaint  an  old  building  was 
this  !  —  to  me  how  veritably  a  palace  of  enchantment ! 
There  was  really  no  end  to  its  windings  —  to  its  incom¬ 
prehensible  subdivisions.  It  was  difficult,  at  any  given  i 
time,  to  say  with  certainty  upon  which  of  its  two  stories  I 
one  happened  to  be.  From  each  room  to  every  other 
there  were  sure  to  be  found  three  or  four  steps  either 
in  ascent  or  descent.  Then  the  lateral  branches  were 
innumerable,  inconceivable,  and  so  returning  in  upon  /; 
themselves  dhat  our  most  exact  ideas  in  regard  to  the  ; 
whole  mansion  were  not  very  far  different  from  those 
with  which  we  pondered  upon  infinity.  During  the  j 


S'V- 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


151 


five  years  of  my  residence  here  I  was  never  able  to  as¬ 
certain,  with  precision,  in  what  remote  locality  lay  the 
little  sleeping  apartment  assigned  to  myself  and  some 
eighteen  or  twenty  other  scholars. 

The  schoolroom  was  the  largest  in  the  house _ I 

I  could  not  help  thinking,  in  the  world.  It  was  very 
I  long,  narrow,  and  dismally  low,  with  pointed  Gothic 
windows  and  a  ceiling  of  oak.  In  a  remote  and  ter¬ 
ror-inspiring  angle  was  a  square  enclosure  of  eight  or 
ten  feet,  comprising  the  sanctum,  ^'during  hours,’’  of 
our  principal,  the  Eeverend  Dr.  Bransby.  It  was  a 
solid  structure,  with  massy  door,  sooner  than  open 
which  in  the  absence  of  the  Dominie”  we  would  all 
have  willingly  perished  by  the  peine  fort  et  dure.  In 
other  angles  were  two  other  similar  boxes,  far  less 
reverenced,  indeed,  but  still  greatly  matters  of  awe. 
One  of  these  was  the  pulpit  of  the  classical  ”  usher ; 
one,  of  the  English  and  mathematical.”  Interspersed 
about  the  room,  crossing  and  recrossing  in  endless  ir¬ 
regularity,  were  innumerable  benches  and  desks,  black, 
ancient,  and  time-worn,  piled  desperately  with  much- 
bethumbed  books,  and  so  beseamed  with  initial  letters, 
names  at  full  length,  grotesque  figures,  and  other  mul¬ 
tiplied  efforts  of  the  knife,  as  to  have  entirely  lost 
what  little  of  original  form  might  have  been  their 


152 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


portion  in  days  long  departed.  ‘A  huge  bucket  with  | 
water  stood  at  one  extremity  of  the  room,  and  a  clock  j 
of  stupendous  dimensions  at  the  other. 

Encompassed  by  the  massy  walls  of  this  venerable 
academy,  I  passed,  yet  not  in  tedium  or  disgust,  the 
years  of  the  third  lustrum  of  my  life.  The  teeming 
brain  of  childhood  requires  no  external  world  of  inci¬ 
dent  to  occupy  or  amuse  it ;  and  the  apparently  dismal 
monotony  of  a  school  was  replete  with  more  intense 
excitement  than  my  riper  youth  has  derived  from  lux¬ 
ury,  or  my  full  manhood  from  crime.  Yet  I  must  be¬ 
lieve  that  my  first  mental  development  had  in  it  much 
of  the  uncommon  —  even  much  of  the  outrL  Upon 
mankind  at  large  the  events  of  very  early  existence 
rarely  leave  in  mature  age  any  definite  impression. 

All  is  gray  shadow  —  a  weak  and  irregular  remem¬ 
brance  —  an  indistinct  regathering  of  feeble  pleasures 
and  phantasmagoric  pains.  With  me  this  is  not  so. 

In  childhood  I  must  have  felt,  with  the  energy  of  a 
man,  what  I  now  find  stamped  upon  memory  in  lines 
as  vivid,  as  deep,  and  as  durable  as  the  exergues  of  the 
Carthaginian  medals. 

Yet  in  fact  —  in  the  fact  of  the  world’s  view  —  how 
little  was  there  to  remember !  The  morning’s  awaken¬ 
ing,  the  nightly  summons  to  bedj  the  connings,  the  j 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


153 


recitations;  the  periodical  half-holidays,  and  peram¬ 
bulations  ;  the  play-ground,  with  its  broils,  its  pas¬ 
times,  its  intrigues;  —  these,  by  a  mental  sorcery  long 
forgotten,  were  made  to  involve  a  wilderness  of  sensa¬ 
tion,  a  world  of  rich  incident,  an  universe  of  varied 
emotion,  of  excitement  the  most  passionate  and  spirit- 
stirring.  O/i,  le  hon  temps,  que  ce  si^de  defer!” 

In  truth,  the  ardor,  the  enthusiasm,  and  the  imperi¬ 
ousness  of  my  disposition,  soon  rendered  me  a  marked 
character  among  my  schoolmates,  and  by  slow  but 
natural  gradations  gave  me  an  ascendancy  over  all 
not  greatly  older  than  myself ;  over  all  with  a  single 
exception.  This  exception  was  found  in  the  person 
of  a  scholar  who,  although  no  relation,  bore  the  same  ^ 
Christian  and  surname  as  myself,  —  a  circumstance, 
in  fact,  little  remarkable ;  for,  notwithstanding  a  noble 
descent,  mine  was  one  of  those  everyday  appellations 
which  seem  by  prescriptive  right  to  have  been,  time 
out  of  mind,  the  common  property  of  the  mob.  In 
this  narrative  I  lja.ve  therefore  designated  myself  as 
William  Wilson,  —  a  fictitious  title  not  very  dissimilar 
to  the  real.  My  namesake  alone,  of  those  who  in 
school-phraseology  constituted  our  set,”  presumed  to  jO 
compete  with  me  in  the  studies  of  the  class  —  in  the 
sports  and  broils  of  the.  play-ground  —  to  refuse  im- 


154 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


plicit  belief  in  my  assertions,  and  submission  to  my 
will  —  indeed,  to  interfere  with  my  arbitrary  dictation  ; 
in  any  respect  whatsoever.  If  there  is  on  earth  a  su-  ^ 
preme  and  unqualified  despotism,  it  is  the  despotism  j 
of  a  master-mind  in  boyhood  over  the  less  euergetic  ' 
s;^irits  of  its  companions.  ^ 

Wilson’s  rebellion  was  to  me  a  source  of  the  greatest 
embarrassment ;  the  more  so  as,  in  spite  of  the  bravado 
with  which  in  public  I  made  a  point  of  treating  him  •; 
and  his  pretensions,  I  secretly  felt  that  I  feared  him,  ■! 
and  could  not  help  thinking  the  equality,  which  he  ^ 
maintained  so  easily  with  myself,  a  proof  of  his  true  i 
superiority;  since  not  to  be  overcome  cost  me  a  per-  ; 
petual  struggle.  Yet  this  superiority,  even  this  equal-  j 
ity,  was  in  truth  acknowledged  by  no  one  but  myself ; 
our  associates,  by  some  unaccountable  blindness,  seemed  <« 
not  even  to  suspect  it.  Indeed,  his  competition,  his 
resistance,  and  especially  his  impertinent  and  dogged 
interference  with  my  purposes,  were  not  more  pointed 
than  private.  He  appeared  to  be  destitute  alike  of  the 
ambition  which  urged,  and  of  the  passionate  energy 
of  mind  which  enabled,  me  to  excel.  In  his  rivalry  ^ 
he  might  have  •  been  supposed  actuated  solely  by  a  j 
whimsical  desire  to  thwart,  astonish,  or  mortify  my-  j 
self ;  although  there  were  times  when  I  could  not  help  j 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


155 


observing,  with  a  feeling  made  np  of  wonder,  abase¬ 
ment,  and  pique,  that  he  mingled  with  his  injuries,  his 
insults,  or  his  contradictions,  a  certain  most  inappro¬ 
priate,  and  assuredly  most  unwelcome,  affectionateness 
of  manner.  I  could  only  conceive  this  singular  be¬ 
havior  to  arise  from  a  consummate  self-conceit  assum¬ 
ing  the  vulgar  airs  of  patronage  and  protection. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  latter  trait  in  Wilson’s  conduct, 
conjoined  -with  our  identity  of  name,  and  the  mere 
accident  of  our  having  entered  the  school  upon  the 
same  day,  which  set  afloat  the  notion  that  we  were 
brothers,  among  the  senior  classes  in  the  academy. 
These  do  not  usually  inquire  with  much  strictness 
into  the  affairs  of  their  juniors.  I  have  before  said, 
or  should  have  said,  that  Wilson  was  not  in  the  most 
remote  degree  connected  with  my  family.  But  as¬ 
suredly  if  we  had  been  brothers  we  must  have  been 
twins;  for,  after  leaving  Dr.  Bransby’s,  I  casually 
learned  that  my  namesake  was  born  on  the  nineteenth 
of  January,  1813;  and  this  is  a  somewhat  remarkable 
coincidence ;  for  the  day  is  precisely  that  of  my  own 

N 

nativity. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  in  spite  of  the  continual 
anxiety  occasioned  me  by  the  rivalry  of  Wilson,  and 
his  intolerable  spirit  of  contradiction,  I  could  not 


156 


WILLIAM  WILSOW 


bring  myself  to  hate  him  altogether.  We  had,  to  be 
sure,  nearly  every  day  a  quarrel  in  which,  yielding  me 
publicly  the  palm  of  victory,  he,  in  some  manner,  con-  | 
trived  to  make  me  feel  that  it  was  he  who  had  deserved 
it;  yet  a  sense  of  pride  on  my  part,  and  a  veritable 
dignity  on  his  own,  kept  us  always  upon  what  are 
called  speaking  terms,”  while  there  were  many  points 
of  strong  congeniality  in  our  tempers,  operating  to 
awake  in  me  a  sentiment  which  our  position  alone, 
perhaps,  prevented  from  ripening  into  friendship.  It 
is  difficult,  indeed,  to  define,  or  even  to  describe,  my  ^ 
real  feelings  towards  him.  They  formed  a  motley 
and  heterogeneous  admixture :  some  petulant  ani¬ 
mosity,  which  was  not  yet  hatred,  some  esteem,  more 
respect,  much  fear,  with  a  world  of  uneasy  curiosity. 

To  the  moralist  it  will  be  unnecessary  to  say,  in  addi¬ 
tion,  that  Wilson  and  myself  were  the  most  insepa-  'j 
rable  of  companions.  i 

It  was  no  doubt  the  anomalous  state  of  affairs  ex-  J 
isting  between  us  which  turned  all  my  attacks  upon  J 
^  him  (and  they  were  many,  either  open  or  covert)  into  ^ 
the  channel  of  banter  or  practical  joke  (giving  pain  : 
while  assuming  the  aspect  of  mere  fun)  rather  than 
into  a  more  serious  and  determined  hostility.  But  . 
my  endeavors  on  this  head  were  by  no  means  uni- 


>  'WILLIAM  WILSON  157 

, ,  formly  successful,  even  when  my  plans  were  the  most 
wittily  concocted ;  for  my  namesake  had  much  about 
him,  in  character,  of  that  unassuming  and  quiet  au¬ 
sterity  which,  vhile  enjoying  the  poignancy  of  its 
own  jokes,  has  no  heel  of  Achilles  in  itself,  and  abso¬ 
lutely  refuses  to  be  laughed  at.  I  could  find,  indeed, 
but  one  vulnerable  point,  and  that  lying  in  a  personal 
peculiarity  arising,  perhaps,  from  constitutional  dis¬ 
ease,  would  have  been  spared  by  any  antagonist  less 
at  his  wit’s  end  than  myself:  —  my  rival  had  a  weak¬ 
ness  in  the  faucial  or  guttural  organs,  which  precluded 
him  from  raising  his  voice  at  any  time  above  a  very 
loiv  whisper.  Of  this  defect  I  did  not  fail  to  take 
what  poor  advantage  lay  in  my  power. 

Wilson’s  retaliations  in  kind  were  many ;  and  there 
was  one  form  of  his  practical  wit  that  disturbed  mo 
beyond  measure.  How  his  sagacity  first  discovered 
at  all  that  so  petty  a  thing  would  vex  me,  is  a  ques¬ 
tion  I  never  could  solve ;  but  having  discovered,  he 
habitually  practised  the  annoyance.  I  had  always 
felt  aversion  to  my  uncourtly  patronymic,  and  its  very 
common,  if  not  plebeian  prsenomen.  The  words  were 
venom  in  my  ears ;  and  when,  upon  the  day  of  my 
arrival,  a  second  William  Wilson  came  also  to  the 
academy,  I  felt  angry  with  him  for  bearing  the  name, 


158 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


and  doubly  disgusted  with  the  name  because  a  stranger  ^ 
bore  it,  who  would  be  the  cause  of  its  twofold  repeti¬ 
tion,  who  would  be  constantly  in  my  presence,  and  j 
whose  concerns,  in  the  ordinary  routine  of  the  school  3 
business,  must  inevitably,  on  account  of  the  detesta- 
ble  coincidence,  be  often  confounded  with  my  own.  -i 
The  feeling  of  vexation  thus  engendered  grew 
stronger  with  every  circumstance  tending  to  show  re-  i 
semblance,  moral  or  physical,  between  my  rival  and 
myself,  I  had  not  then  discovered  the  remarkable 
fact  that  we  were  of  the  same  age ;  but  I  saw  that  we  1 
^  were  of  the  same  height,  and  I  perceived  that  we  were 
\  even  singularly  alike  in  general  contour  of  person  and  . 
outline  of  feature.  I  was  galled,  too,  by  the  rumor 
touching  a  relationship  which  had  grown  current  in 
the  upper  forms.  In  a  word,  nothing  could  more 
seriously  disturb  me  (although  I  scrupulously  con¬ 
cealed  such  disturbance),  than  any  allusion  to  a  simi¬ 
larity  of  mind,  person,  or  condition  existing  between 
us.  But,  in  truth,  I  had  no  reason  to  believe  that 
(with  the  exception  of  the  matter  of  relationship,  and 
in  the  case  of  Wilson  himself)  this  similarity  had 
ever  been  made  a  subject  of  comment,  or  even  ob¬ 
served  at  all  by  our  schoolfellows.  That  he  observed 
it  in  all  its  bearings,  and  as  fixedly  as  I,  was  appar 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


159 


ent ;  but  that  he  could  discover  in  such  circumstances 
I  so  fruitful  a  field  of  annoyance  can  only  be  attributed, 
as  I  said  before,  to  his  more  than  ordinary  penetra- 
j  tion. 

His  cue,  which  was  to  perfect  an  imitation  of  my- 
I  self,  lay  both  in  words  and  in  actions ;  and  most 
admirably  did  he  play  his  part.  My  dress  it  was 
I  an  easy  matter  to  copy ;  my  gait  and  general  man¬ 
ner  were,  without  difficulty,  appropriated ;  in  spite 
of  his  constitutional  defect,,  even  my  voice  did  not 
escape  him.  My  louder  tones  were,  of  course,  un¬ 
attempted,  but  then  the  key,  —  it  was  identical ;  and 
his  singular  whisper ,  —  it  grew  the  very  echo  of  my 
own. 

How  greatly  this  most  exquisite  portraiture  harassed 
me  (for  it  could  not  justly  be  termed  a  caricature)  I 
will  not  now  venture  to  describe.  I  had  but  one  con¬ 
solation —  in  the  fact  that  the  imitation,  apparently,^ 
was  noticed  by  myself  alone,  and  that  I  had  to  endure 
only  the  knowing  and  strangely  sarcastic  smiles  of 
my  namesake  himself.  Satisfied  with  having  pro¬ 
duced  in  my  bosom  the  intended  effect,  he  seemed 
to  chuckle  in  secret  over  the  sting  he  had  inflicted, 
and  was  characteristically  disregardful  of  the  public 
applause  which  the  success  of  his  witty  endeavors  \ 


160 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


might  have  so  easily  elicited.  That  the  school,  in* 
deed,  did  not  feel  his  design,  perceive  its  accomplish¬ 
ment,  and  participate  in  his  sneer,  was,  for  many 
anxious  months,  a  riddle  I  could  not  resolve.  Perhaps 
the  gradation  of  his  copy  rendered  it  not  so  readily 
perceptible ;  or,  more  possibly,  I  owed  my  security  to 
the  masterly  air  of  the  copyist,  who,  disdaining  the  . 
letter  (which  in  a  painting  is  all  the  obtuse  can  see), 
gave  but  the  full  spirit  of  his  Original  for  my  individ- 
iml  contemplation  and  chagrin. 

I  have  already  more  than  once  spoken  of  the  dis¬ 
gusting  air  of  patronage  which  he  assumed  toward 
me,  and  of  his  frequent  officious  interference  with 
my  will.  This  interference  often  took  the  ungracious 
character  of  advice ;  advice  not  openly  given,  but 
hinted  or  insinuated.  I  received  it  with  a  repug¬ 
nance  which  gained  strength  as  I  grew  in  years. 
Yet,  at  this  distant  day,  let  me  do  him  the  simple 
justice  to  acknowledge  that  I  can  recall  no  occasion 
when  the  suggestions  of  my  rival  were  on  the  side 
of  those  errors  or  follies  so  usual  to  his  immature 
age  and  seeming  inexperience;  that  his  moral  sense, 
at  least,  if  not  his  general  talents  and  worldly  wis¬ 
dom,  was  far  keener  than  my  own ;  and  that  I  might, 
to-day,  have  been  a  better,  and  thus  a  happier  man^ 


WILLIAM  WILSON  161 

I 

had  I  less  frequently  rejected  the  counsels  embodied 
in  those  meaning  whispers  which  I  then  but  too 
cordially  hated  and  too  bitterly  despised. 

As  it  was,  I  at  length  grew  restive  in  the  extreme 
under  his  distasteful  supervision,  and  daily  resented 
more  and  more  openly  what  I  considered  his  intoler¬ 
able  arrogance.  I  have  said  that,  in  the  first  years 
of  our  connection  as  schoolmates,  my  feelings  in 
regard  to  him  might  have  been  easily  ripened  into^" 
friendship ;  but,  in  the  latter  months  of  my  residence 
at  the  academy,  although  the  intrusion  of  his  ordinary 
manner  had,  beyond  doubt,  in  some  measure  abated, 
my  sentiments,  in  nearly  similar  proportion,,  partook 
very  much  of  positive  hatred.  Upon  one  occasion  he 
saw  this,  I  think,  and  afterwards  avoided  or  made  a 
show  of  avoiding  me. 

It  was  about  the  same  period,  if  I  remember  aright, 
that,  in  an  altercation  of  violence  with  him,  in  which 
he  was  more  than  usually  thrown  off  his  guard,  and 
spoke  and  acted  with  an  openness  of  demeanor  rather 
foreign  to  his  nature,  I  discovered,  or  fancied  I  dis¬ 
covered,  in  his  accent,  his  air,  and  general  appearance, 
a  something  which  first  startled,  and  then  deeply 
interested  me,  by  bringing  to  mind  dim  visions  of 
my  earliest  infancy  —  wild,  confused,  and  thronging 


H 


162 


WILLIAM  WILSON' 


memories  of  a  time  when  memory  herself  was  yet 
unborn.  I  cannot  better  describe  the  sensation  which 
oppressed  me  than  by  saying  that  I  could  with  diffi¬ 
culty  shake  off  the  belief  of  my  having  been  acquainted 
with  the  being  who  stood  before  me,  at  some  epoch 
very  long  ago  —  some  point  of  the  past  even  infinitely 
remote.  The  delusion,  however,  faded  rapidly  as  it 
came ;  and  I  mention  it  at  all  but  to  define  the  day  of 
the  last  conversation  I  there  held  with  my  singular 
namesake. 

The  huge  old  house,  with  its  countless  subdivisions, 
had  several  large  chambers  communicating  with  each 
other,  where  slept  the  greater  number  of  the  students. 
There  were,  however  (as  must  necessarily  happen  in 
a  building  so  awkwardly  planned),  many  little  nooks 
or  recesses,  the  odds  and  ends  of  the  structure ;  and 
these  the  economic  ingenuity  of  Dr.  Bransby  had  also 
fitted  up  as  dormitories;  although,  being  the  merest 
closets,  they  were  capable  of  accommodating  but  a 
single  individual.  One  of  these  small  apartments  was 
occupied  by  Wilson. 

One  night,  about  the  close  of  my  fifth  year  at  the 
school,  and  immediately  after  the  altercation  just  men¬ 
tioned,  finding  every  one  wrapped  in  sleep,  I  arose 
from  bed,  and,  lamp  in  hand,  stole  through  a  wilder- 


i 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


163 


ness  of  narrow  passages  from  my  own  bedroom  to  that 
of  my  rival.  I  had  long  been  plotting  one  of  those 
ill-natured  pieces  of  practical  wit  at  his  expense  in 
which  I  had  hitherto  been  so  uniformly  unsuccessful. 

It  was  my  intention,  now,  to  put  my  scheme  in  opera¬ 
tion,  and  I  resolved  to  make  him  feel  the  whole  ex¬ 
tent  of  the  malice  with  which  I  was  imbued.  Having 
reached  his  closet,  I  noiselessly  entered,  leaving  the 
lamp,  with  a  shade  over  it,  on  the  outside.  I  advanced 
a  step,  and  listened  to  the  sound  of  his  tranquil  breath¬ 
ing.  Assured  of  his  being  asleep,  I  returned,  took  the 
light,  and  with  it  again  approached  the  bed.  Close 
curtains  were  around  it,  which,  in  the  prosecution  of 
my  plan,  I  slowly  and  quietly  withdrew,  when  the 
bright  rays  fell  vividly  upon  the  sleeper,  and  my  eyes 
at  the  same  moment  upon  his  countenance.  I  looked, 

—  and  a  numbness,  an  iciness  of  feeling,  instantly 
pervaded  my  frame.  My  breast  heaved,  my  knees 
tottered,  my  whole  spirit  became  possessed  with  an 
objectless  yet  intolerable  horror.  Gasping  for  breath, 

I  lowered  the  lamp  in  still  nearer  proximity  to  the  V 
face.  Were  these,  —  these  the  lineaments  of  William 
Wilson  ?  I  saw,  indeed,  that  they  were  his,  but  I 
shook  as  if  with  a  fit  of  the  ague,  in  fancying  they  were 
not.  What  was  there  about  them  to  confound  me  in 


164 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


this  manner  ?  I  gazed,  —  while  my  brain  reeled  with  B 
a  multitude  of  incoherent  thoughts.  Not  thus  he  S 
appeared  —  assuredly  not  thus  —  in  the  vivacity  of  his  | 
waking  hours.  The  same  name !  the  same  contour  | 
of  person!  the  same  day  of  arrival  at  the  academy!  ’ 
And  then  his  dogged  and  meaningless  imitation  of  | 
my  gait,  my  voice,  my  habits,  and  my  manner !  Was  j 
it,  in  truth,  within  the  bounds  of  human  possibility, 
that  what  I  now  saw  was  the  result,  merely,  of  the  I 
habitual  practice  of  this  sarcastic  imitation  ?  Awe-  j 
stricken,  and  with  a  creeping  shudder,  I  extinguished  I 
the  lamp,  passed  silently  from  the  chamber,  and  left,  ! 
at  once,  the  halls  of  that  old  academy,  never  to  enter 
them  again. 

After  a  lapse  of  some  months,  spent  at  home  in 
mere  idleness,  I  found  myself  a  student  at  Eton.  The  1 
brief  interval  had  been  sufficient  to  enfeeble  my  re-  * 
membraiice  of  the  events  at  Dr.  Bransby’s,  or  at  least 
to  effect  a  material  change  in  the  nature  of  the  feel¬ 
ings  with  which  I  remember  them.  The  truth  —  the  I 
tragedy  —  of  the  drama  was  no  more.  I  could  now  ! 
find  room  to  doubt  the  evidence  of  my  senses ;  and 
seldom  called  up  the  subject  at  all  but  with  wonder  at 
the  extent  of  human  credulity,  and  a  smile  at  the  i 
vivid  force  of  the  imagination  which  I  hereditarily 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


165 


possessed.  Neither  was  this  species  of  scepticism 
likely  to  be  diminished  by  the  character  of  the  life  I 
led  at  Eton.  The  vortex  of  thoughtless  folly,  into 
which  I  there  so  immediately  and  so  recklessly  plunged, 
washed  away  all  but  the  froth  of  my  past  hours,  en¬ 
gulfed  at  once  every  solid  or  serious  impression,  and 
left  to  memory  only  the  veriest  levities  of  a  former 

existence. 

I  do  not  wish,  however,  to  trace  the  course  of  my 
miserable  profligacy  here  —  a  profligacy  which  set  at 
defiance  the  laws,  while  it  eluded  the  vigilance,  of  the 
institutions.  Three  years  of  folly,  passed  without 
profit,*  had  but  given  me  rooted  habits  of  vice,  and 
added,  in  a  somewhat  unusual  degree,  to  my  bodily 
stature,  when,  after  a  week  of  soulless  dissipation,  I 
invited  a  small  party  of  the  most  dissolute  students 
to  a  secret  carousal  in  my  chambers.  We  met  at  a 
late  hour  of  the  night ;  for  our  debaucheries  were  to 
be  faithfully  protracted  until  morning.  The  wine 
flowed  freely,  and  there  were  not  wanting  other  and 
perhaps  more  dangerous  seductions ;  so  that  the  gray 
dawn  had  already  faintly  appeared  in  the  east  while 
our  delirious  extravagance  was  at  its  height.  Madly 
flushed  with  cards  and  intoxication,  I  was  in  the  act 
of  insisting  upon  a  toast  of  more  than  wonted  profan- 


166 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


ity,  when  my  attention  was  suddenly  diverted,  by  the 
violent,  although  partial,  unclosing  of  the  door  of  the 
apartment,  and  by  the  eager  voice  of  a  servant  from 
without.  He  said  that  some  person,  apparently  in 
great  haste,  demanded  to  speak  with  me  in  the  hall. 

Wildly  excited  with  wine,  the  unexpected  interrup¬ 
tion  rather  delighted  than  surprised  me.  I  staggered 
forward  at  once,  and  a  few  steps  brought  me  to  the 
vestibule  of  the  building.  ‘In  this  low  and  small  room 
there  hung  no  lamp;  and  now  no  light  at  all  was 
admitted,  save  that  of  the  exceedingly  feeble  dawn 
which  made  its  way  through  the  semi-circular  window. 
As  I  put  my  foot  over  the  threshold,  I  became  -aware 
of  the  figure  of  a  youth  about  my  own  height,  and  hab¬ 
ited  in  a  white  kerseymere  morning  frock,  cut  in  the 
novel  fashion  of  the  one  I  myself  wore  at  the  moment. 
This  the  faint  light  enabled  me  to  perceive ;  but  the 
features  of  his  face  I  could  not  distinguish.  Upon 
my  entering,  he  strode  hurriedly  up  to  me,  and,  seiz¬ 
ing  me  by  the  arm  with  a  gesture  of  petulant  impa¬ 
tience,-  whispered  the  words  William  Wilson !  ”  in 

my  ear. 

I  grew  perfectly  sober  in  an  instant. 

There  was  that  in  the  manner  of  the  stranger,  and 
in  the  tremulous  shake  of  his  uplifted  finger,  as  he 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


167 


held  it  between  my  eyes  and  the  light,  which  filled 
me  with  unqualified  amazement ;  but  it  was  not  this 
which  had  so  violently  moved  me.  It  was  the  preg¬ 
nancy  of  solemn  admonition  in  the  singular,  low,  hiss¬ 
ing  utterance;  and,  above  all,  it  was  the  character, 
the  tone,  the  key,  of  those  few,  simple,  and  familiar, 
yet  whispered  syllables,  which  came  with  a  thousand 
thronging  memories  of  by-gone  days,  and  struck  upon 
my  soul  with  the  shock  of  a  galvanic  battery.  Ere  I 
could  recover  the  use  of  my  senses  he  was  gone. 

Although  this  event  failed  not  of  a  vivid  effect  upon 
my  disordered  imagination,  yet  it  was  evaneecent  as 
vivid.  For  some  weeks,  indeed,  I  busied  myself  in 
earnest  inquiry,  or  was  wrapped  in  a  cloud  of  morbid 
speculation.  I  did  not  pretend  to  disguise  from  my 
perception  the  identity  of  the  singular  individual  who 
thus  perseveringly  interfered  with  my  affairs,  and 
harassed  me  with  his  insinuated  counsel.  But  who 
and  what  was  this  Wilson  ?  —  and  whence  came  he  ? 

_ and  what  were  his  purposes?  Upon  neither  of 

these  points  could  I  be  satisfied  —  merely  ascertain¬ 
ing,  in  regard  to  him,  that  a  sudden  accident  in  his 
family  had  caused  his  removal  from  Dr.  Bransby’s 
academy  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  in  which  I  my¬ 
self  had  eloped.  But  in  a  brief  period  I  ceased  to 


168 


WILLIAM  WILSON" 


think  upon  the  subject,  my  attention  being  all  absorbed 
in  a  contemplated  departure  for  Oxford.  Thither  I 
soon  went,  the  uncalculating  vanity  of  my  parents 
furnishing  me  with  an  outfit  and  annual  establish¬ 
ment  which  would  enable  me  to  indulge  at  will  in  the 
luxury  already  so  dear  to  my  heart  —  to  vie  in  pro¬ 
fuseness  of  expenditure  with  the  haughtiest  heirs  of 
the  wealthiest  earldoms  in  Great  Britain. 

Excited  by  such  appliances  to  vice,  my  constitutional 
temperament  broke  forth  with  redoubled  ardor,  and 
I  spurned  even  the  common  restraints  of  decency  in 
the  mad  infatuation  of  my  revels.  But  it  were  absurd 
to  pause  in  the  detail  of  my  extravagance.  Let  it 
suffice,  that  among  spendthrifts  I  out-Heroded  Herod, 
and  that,  giving  name  to  a  multitude  of  novel  follies, 
I  added  no  brief  appendix  to  the  long  catalogue  of 
vices  then  usual  in  the  most  dissolute  university  of 
Europe. 

It  could  hardly  be  credited,  however,  that  I  had, 
even  here,  so  utterly  fallen  from  the  gentlemanly 
estate  as  to  seek  acquaintance  with  the  vilest  arts  of 
the  gambler  by  profession,  and,  having  become  an 
adept  in  his  despicable  science,  to  practise  it  habit¬ 
ually  as  a  means  of  increasing  my  already  enormous 
income  at  the  expense  of  the  weak-minded  among  my 


I 

{' 

i 

i 

] 


WILLIAM  WILSON  169 

fellow-collegians.  Such,  nevertheless,  was  the  fact. 
And  the  very  enormity  of  this  offence  against  all 
manly  and  honorable  sentiment  proved,  beyond  doubt, 
the  main  if  not  the  sole  reason  of  the  impunity  with 
which  it  was  committed.  Who,  indeed,  among  my 
most  abandoned  associates,  would  not  rather  have 
disputed  the  clearest  evidence  of  his  senses,  than  have 
suspected  of  such  courses  the  gay,  the  frank,  the 
generous  William  Wilson  —  the  noblest  and  most 
liberal  commoner  at  Oxford :  him  whose  follies  (said 
his  parasites)  were  but  the  follies  of  youth  and 
unbridled  fancy  —  whose  errors  but  inimitable. whim 
—  whose  darkest  vice  but  a  careless  and  dashing 
extravagance  ? 

I  had  been  now  two  years  successfully  busied  in 
this  way,  when  there  came  to  the  university  a  young 
parvenu  nobleman,  Glendinning  —  rich,  said  report, 
as  Herodes  Atticus  —  his  riches,  too,  as  easily  ac¬ 
quired.  I  soon  found  him  of  weak  intellect,  and  of 
course  marked  him  as  a  fitting  subject  for  my  skill. 
I  frequently  engaged  him  in  play,  and  contrived,  with 
the  gambler’s  usual  art,  to  let  him  win  considerable 
sums,  the  more  effectually  to  entangle  him  in  my 
snares.  At  length,  my  schemes  being  ripe,  I  met  him 
(with  the  full  intention  that  this  meeting  should  be 


170 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


final  and  decisive)  at  the  chambers  of  a  fellow-com« 
moner  (Mr.  Preston),  equally  intimate  with  both,  but 
who,  to  do  him  justice,  entertained  not  even  a  remote 
suspicion  of  my  design.  To  give  to  this  a  better 
coloring,  I  had  contrived  to  have  assembled  a  party 
of  some  eight  or  ten,  and  was  solicitously  careful  that 
the  introduction  of  cards  should  appear  accidental, 
and  originate  in  the  proposal  of  my  contemplated 
dupe  himself.  To  be  brief  upon  a  vile  topic,  none  of 
the  low  finesse  was  omitted,  so  customary  upon  simi¬ 
lar  occasions  that  it  is  a  just  matter  for  wonder  how 
any  are  still  found  so  besotted  as  to  fall  its  victim. 

We  had  protracted  our  sitting  far  into  the  night, 
and  I  had  at  length  effected  the  manoeuvre  of  getting 
Glendinning  as  my  sole  antagonist.  The  game,  too, 
was  my  favorite  ^cartL  The  rest  of  the  company, 
interested  in  the  extent  of  our  play,  had  abandoned 
their  own  cards,  and  were  standing  around  us  as  spec¬ 
tators.  The  parvenu,  who  had  been  induced,  by  my  j 
artifices  in  the  early  part  of  the  evening,  to  drink 
deeply,  now  shuffled,  dealt,  or  played,  with  a  wild 
nervousness  of  manner  for  which  his  intoxication,  I 
thought,  might  partially  but  could  not  altogether 
account.  In  a  very  short  period  he  had  become  my 
debtor  to  a  large  amount,  when,  having  taken  a  long 


WILLIAM  WILSON  171 

draught  of  port,  he  did  precisely  what  I  had  been 
coolly  anticipating  —  he  proposed  to  double  our  al¬ 
ready  extravagant  stakes.  With  a  well-feigned  show 
of  reluctance,  and  not  until  after  my  repeated  refusal 
had  seduced  him  into  some  angry  words  which  gave 
a  color  of  pique  to  my  compliance,  did  I  finally  com¬ 
ply.  The  result,  of  course,  did  but  prove  how  entirely 
the  prey  was  in  my  toils ;  in  less  than  an  hour  he  had 
quadrupled  his  debt.  For  some  time  his  countenance 
had  been  losing  the  florid  tinge  lent  it  by  the  wine ; 
but  now,  to  my  astonishment,  I  perceived  that  it  had 
grown  to  a  pallor  truly  fearful.  I  say,  to  my  aston¬ 
ishment.  Glendinning  had  been  represented  to  my 
eager  inquiries  as  immeasurably  wealthy;  and  the 
sums  which  he  had  as  yet  lost,  although  in  them¬ 
selves  vast,  could  not,  I  supposed,  very  seriously 
annoy,  much  less  so  violently  affect  him.  That  he 
was  overcome  by  the  wine  just  swallowed,- was  the 
I  idea  which  most  readily  presented  itself ;  and,  rather 
with  a  view  to  the  preservation  of  my  own  character 
in  the  eyes  of  my  associates,  than  from  any  less  inter¬ 
ested  motive,  I  was  about  to  insist,  peremptorily,  upon 
a  discontinuance  of  the  play,  when  some  expressions 
at  my  elbow  from  among  the  company,  and  an  ejacu¬ 
lation  evincing  utter  despair  on  the  part  of  Glendin- 


172 


WILLIAM  WILSOM 


ning,  gave  me  to  understand  that  I  had  effected  his  \ 
total  ruin  under  circumstances  which,  rendering  him  J 
an  object  for  the  pity  of  all,  should  have  protected  ij 
him  from  the  ill  offices  even  of  a  fiend.  | 

What  now  might  have  been  my  conduct  it  is  diffi-  J 
cult  to  say.  The  pitiable  condition  of  my  dupe  had  ! 
thrown  an  air  of  embarrassed  gloom  over  all ;  and  for  | 
some  moments  a  profound  silence  was  maintained,  dur-  1 1 
ing  which  I  could  not  help  feeling  my  cheeks  tingle  I 
with  the  many  burning  glances  of  scorn  or  reproach  | 
cast  upon  me  by  the  less  abandoned  of  the  party.  I 
will  even  own  that  an  intolerable  weight  of  anxiety  | 
was  for  a  brief  instant  lifted  from  my  bosom  by  the  j 
sudden  and  extraordinary  interruption  which  ensued,  j 
The  wide,  heavy  folding-doors  of  the  apartment  were  | 
all  at  once  thrown  open,  to  their  full  extent,  with  a  1 
vigorous  and  rushing  impetuosity  that  extinguished, 
as  if  by  magic,  every  candle  in  the  room.  Their  light, 
in  dying,  enabled  us  just  to  perceive  that  a  stranger 
had  entered,  about  my  own  height,  and  closely  muffied 
in  a  cloak.  The  darkness,  however,  was  now  total  ; 
and  we  could  only  feel  that  he  was  standing  in  our 
midst.  Before  any  one  of  us  could  recover  from  the 
extreme  astonishment  into  which  this  rudeness  had 
thrown  all,  we  heard  the,  voice  of  the  intruder. 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


173 


Gentlemen,”  he  said,  in  a  low,  distinct,  and  never- 
to-be-forgotten  whisper  which  thrilled  to  the  very  mar¬ 
row  of  my  bones,  gentlemen,  I  make  no  apology  for 
this  behavior,  because,  in  thus  behaving,  I  am  but  ful¬ 
filling  a  duty.  You  are,  beyond  doubt,  uninformed  of 
the  true  character  of  the  person  who  has  to-night  won 
at  ^carU  a  large  sum  of  money  from  Lord  Glendinning. 

I  will  therefore  put  you  upon  an  expeditious  and  de¬ 
cisive  plan  of  obtaining  this  very  necessary  informa¬ 
tion.  Please  to  examine,  at  your  leisure,  the  inner 
linings  of  the  cuff  of  his  left  sleeve,  and  the  several 
little  packages  which  may  be  found  in  the  somewhat  ca¬ 
pacious  pockets  of  his  embroidered  morning  wrapper.” 

While  he  spoke,  so  profound  was  the  stillness  that 
one  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop  upon  the  floor.  In^ 
ceasing,  he  departed  at  once,  and  as  abruptly  as  he 
had  entered.  Can  I  —  shall  I  describe  my  sensations  ? 
Must  I  say  that  I  felt  all  the  horrors  of  the  damned  ? 
Most  assuredly  I  had  little  time  for  reflection.  Many 
hands  roughly  seized  me  upon  the  spot,  and  lights 
were  immediately  reprocured.  A  search  ensued.  In 
the  lining  of  my  sleeve  were  found  all  the  court  cards 
essential  in  4cart4,  and,  in  the  pockets  of  my  wrapper, 
a  number  of  packs,  fac-similes  of  those  used  at  our 
sittings,  with  the  single  exception  that  mine  were  of 


174 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


the  species  called,  technically,  arrondis  ;  the  honors 
being  slightly  convex  at  the  ends,  the  lower  cards 
slightly  convex  at  the  sides.  In  this  disposition,  the 
dupe  who  cuts,  as  customary,  at  the  length  of  the 
pack,  will  invariably  find  that  he  cuts  his  antagonist 
an  honor ;  while  the  gambler,  cutting  at  the  breadth, 
will,  as  certainly,  cut  nothing  for  his  victim  which  may 

count  in  the  records  of  the  game. 

Any  burst  of  indignation  upon  this  discovery  would 
have  affected  me  less  than  the  silent  contempt,  or  the 
sarcastic  composure,  with  which  it  was  received. 

Mr.  Wilson,”  said  our  host,  stooping  to  remove 
from  beneath  his  feet  an  exceedingly  luxurious  cloak 
of  rare  furs,  Mr.  Wilson,  this  is  your  property. 
(The  weather  was  cold ;  and,  upon  quitting  my  own 
room,  I  had  thrown  a  cloak  over  my  dressing  wrapper, 
putting  it  off  upon  reaching  the  scene  of  play.)  “  I 
presume  it  is  supererogatory  to  seek  here  ”  (eying  the 
folds  of  the  garment  with  a  bitter  smile)  ‘Mor  any 
farther  evidence  of  your  skill.  Indeed,  we  have  had 
enough.  You  will  see  the  necessity,  I  hope,  of  quit¬ 
ting  Oxford  —  at  all  events,  of  quitting  instantly  my 
chambers.” 

Abased,  humbled  to  the  dust  as  I  then  was,  it  is 
probable  that  I  should  have  resented  this  galling  Ian- 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


175 


i  guage  by  immediate  personal  violence,  had  not  my 
:  whole  attention  been  at  the  moment  arrested  by  a  fact 

of  the  most  startling  character.  The  cloak  which  I 
I  had  worn  was  of  a  rare  description  of  fur ;  how  rare, 

I  how  extravagantly  costly,  I  shall  not  venture  to  say. 
Its  fashion,  too,  was  of  my  own  fantastic  invention ; 
for  I  was  fastidious  to  an  absurd  degree  of  coxcombry, 
in  matters  of  this  frivolous  nature.  AVhen,  therefore, 
Mr.  Preston  reached  me  that  which  he  had  picked  up 
upon  the  floor,  and  near  the  folding-doors  of  the  apart¬ 
ment,  it  was  with  an  astonishment  ^nearly  bordering 
upon  terror,  that  I  perceived  my  own  already  hanging 
on  my  arm  (where  I  had  no  doubt  unwittingly  placed 
it),  and  that  the  one  presented  me  was  but  its  exact 
counterpart  in  every,  in  even  the  minutest  possible  * 
particular.  The  singular  being  who  had  so  disas- 
j  trously  exposed  me,  had  been  muffled,  I  remembered, 
in  a  cloak ;  and  none  had  been  worn  at  all  by  any  of 
the  members  of  our  party,  with  the  exception  of  my¬ 
self.  Ketaining  some  presence  of  mind,  I  took  the 
one  offered  me  by  Preston ;  placed  it,  unnoticed,  over 
my  own ;  left  the  apartment  with  a  resolute  scowl  of 
defiance;  and,  next  morning  ere  dawn  of  day,  com¬ 
menced  a  hurried  journey  from  Oxford  to  the  conti¬ 
nent,  in  a  perfect  agony  of  horror  and  of  shame. 


176 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


IJled  in  vain.  evil  destiny  pursued  me  as  if  in  I 
exultation,  and  prbved,  indeed,  that  the  exercise  of  its 
mysterious  domiiiion  had  as  yet  only  begun.  Scarcely 
had  I  set  foot  inyParis,  ere  I  had  fresh  evidence  of  the  j 
detestable  int^st  taken  by  this  Wilson  in  my  con¬ 
cerns.  Yeafs  flew,  while  I  experienced  no  relief,  j 
Villain  !  — at  Rome,  with  how  untimely,  yet  with  how 
spectral  an  officiousness,  stepped  he  in  between  me 
and  my  ambition !  At  Vienna,  too  —  at  Berlin  and 
at  Moscow !  Where,  in  truth,  had  I  not  bitter  cause 
to  curse  him  within  my  heart  ?  From  his  inscrutable 
tyranny  did  I  at  length  flee,  panic-stricken,  as  from  a  . 
pestilence  5  and  to  the  very  ends  of  the  earth  IJled  i 

m  vain.  ' 

And  again,  and  again,  in  secret  communion  with  my  | 
own  spirit,  would  I  demand  the  questions,  “Who  is 
he  ?  —  whence  came  he  ?  —  and  what  are  his  objects  ?  ” 
But  no  answer  was  there  found.  And  now  I  scruti¬ 
nized,  with  a  minute  scrutiny,  the  forms,  and  the 
methods,  and  the  leading  traits  of  his  impertinent  su-  . 
pervision.  But  even  here  there  was  very  little  upon 
which  to  base  a  conjecture.  It  was  noticeable,  in-  i 
deed,  that,  in  no  one  of  the  multiplied  instances  in 
which  he  had  of  late  crossed  my  path,  had  he  so 
crossed  it  except  to  frustrate  those  schemes,  or  to  dis- 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


177 


turb  those  actions,  which,  if  fully  carried  out,  might 
have  resulted  in  bitter  mischief.  Poor  justification 
this,  in  truth,  for  an  authority  so  imperiously  assumed ! 
Poor  indemnity  for  natural  rights  of  self-agency  so 
pertinaciously,  so  insultingly  denied ! 

I  had  also  been  forced  to  notice  that  my  tormentor, 
for  a  very  long  period  of  time  (while  scrupulously  and 
with  miraculous  dexterity  maintaining  his  whim  of  an 
identity  of  apparel  with  myself),  had  so  contrived  it,  in 
the  execution  of  his  varied  interference  with  my  will, 
that  I  saw  not,  at  any  moment,  the  features  of  his  face. 
Be  Wilson  what  he  might,  this,  at  least,  was  but  the  ver¬ 
iest  of  affectation,  or  of  folly.  Could  he,  for  an  instant, 
have  supposed  that,  in  my  admonisher  at  Eton,  —  in 
the  destroyer  of  my  honor  at  Oxford, — in  him  who 
thwarted  my  ambition  at  Koine,  my  revenge  at  Paris, 
my  passionate  love  at  Naples,  or  what  he  falsely 
termed  my  avarice  in  Egypt,  —  that  in  this,  my  arch¬ 
enemy  and  evil  genius,  I  could  fail  to  recognize  the 
William  Wilson  of  my  schoolboy  days  :  the  namesake, 
the  companion,  the  rival,  the  hated  and  dreaded  rival 
at  Dr.  Bransby’s  ?  Impossible  !  —  but  let  me  hasten 
to  the  last  eventful  scene  of  the  drama. 

Thus  far  I  had  succumbed  supinely  to  this  imperi¬ 
ous  domination.  The  sentiment  of  deep  awe  with 


178 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


which  I  habitually  regarded  the  elevated  character, 
the  majestic  wisdom,  the  apparent  omnipresence  and 
omnipotence  of  Wilson,  added  to  a  feeling  of  even 
terror  with  which  certain  other  traits  in  his  nature 
and  assumptions  inspired  me,  had  operated,  hitherto, 
to  impress  me  with  an  idea  of  my  own  utter  weakness 
and  helplessness,  and  to  suggest  an  implicit,  although 
bitterly  reluctant  submission  to  his  arbitrary  will. 
But,  of  late  days,  I  had  given  myself  up  entirely  to 
wine ;  and  its  maddening  influence  upon  my  hereditary 
temper  rendered  me  more  and  more  impatient- of  con¬ 
trol.  I  began  to  murmur,  to  hesitate,  to  resist.  And 
was  it  only  fancy  which  induced  me  to  believe  that, 
with  the  increase  of  my  own  firmness,  that  of  my  tor¬ 
mentor  underwent  a  proportional  diminution  ?  Be 
this  as  it  may,  I  now  began  to  feel  the  inspiration  of 
a  burning  hope,  and  at  length  nurtured  in  my  secret 
thoughts  a  stern  and  desperate  resolution  that  I  would 
submit  no  longer  to  be  enslaved. 

It  was  at  Eome,  during  the  Carnivar  of  18 — ,  that  I 
attended  a  masquerade  in  the  palazzo  of  the  Neapoli¬ 
tan  Duke  Di  Broglio.  I  had  indulged  more  freely 
than  usual  in  the  excesses  of  the  wine-table  ;  and  now 
the  suffocating  atmosphere  of  the  crowded  rooms  irri¬ 
tated  me  beyond  endurance.  The  difiiculty,  too,  of 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


179 


forcing  my  "vay  through  the  mazes  of  the  company 
contributed  not  a  little  to  the  ruffling  of  my  temper  ; 
for  I  was  anxiously  seeking  (let  me  not  say  with  what 
unworthy  motive)  the  young,  the  gay,  the  beautiful 
wife  of  the  aged  and  doting  Di  Broglio.  With  a  too 
unscrupulous  confidence  she  had  previously  communi¬ 
cated  to  me  the  secret  of  the  costume  in  which  she 
would  be  habited,,  and  now,  having  caught  a  glimpse 
of  her  person,  I  was  hurrying  to  make  my  way  into 
her  presence.  At  this  moment  I  felt  a  light  hand 
placed  upon  my  shoulder,  and  that  ever-remembered, 
low,  damnable  whisper  within  my  ear. 

In  an  absolute  frenzy  of  wrath,  I  turned  at  once 
upon  him  who  had  thus  interrupted  me,  and  seized 
him  violently  by  the  collar.  He  was  attired,  as  I  had 
expected,  in  a  costume  altogether  similar  to  my  own  ; 
wearing  a  Spanish  cloak  of  blue  velvet,  begirt  about 
the  waist  with  a  crimson  belt  sustaining  a  rapier.  A 
mask  of  black  silk  entirely  covered  his  face. 

“  Scoundrel !  I  said,  in  a  voice  husky  with  rage, 
while  every  syllable  I  uttered  seemed  as  new  fuel  to 
my  fury  ;  “  scoundrel !  impostor  !  accursed  villain  ! 
you  shall  not  —  you  shall  not  dog  me  unto  death  ! 
Follow  me,  or  I  stab  you  where  you  stand!”  —  and 
*  I  broke  my  way  from  the  ball  room  into  a  small  ante- 


180 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


chamber  adjoining,  dragging  him  unresistingly  with 
me  as  I  went. 

Upon  entering,  I  thrust  him  furiously  from  me. 
He  staggered  against  the  wall,  while  I  closed  the  door 
with  an  oath,  and  commanded  him  to  draw.  He  hesi¬ 
tated  but  for  an  instant ;  then,  with  a  slight  sigh,  drew 
in  silence,  and  put  himself  upon  hi&  defence. 

The  contest  was  brief  indeed.  I  was  frantic  with 
every  species  of  wild  excitement,  and  felt  within  my 
single  arm  the  energy  and  power  of  a  multitude.  In 
a  few  seconds  I  forced  him  by  sheer  strength  against 
the  wainscoting,  and  thus,  getting  him  at  mercy, 
plunged  my  sword,  with  brute  ferocity,  repeatedly 
through  and  through  his  bosom. 

At  that  instant  some  person  tried  the  latch  of  the 
door.  I  hastened  to  prevent  an  intrusion,  and  then 
immediately  returned  to  my  dying  antagonist.  But 
what  human  language  can  adequately  portray  that 
astonishment,  that  horror  which  possessed  me  at  the 
spectacle  then  presented  to  view  ?  The  brief  moment 
in  which  I  averted  my  eyes  had  been  sufficient  to  pro¬ 
duce,  apparently,  a  material  change  in  the  arrange¬ 
ments  at  the  upper  or  farther  end  of  the  room.  A 
large  mirror  —  so  at  first  it  seemed  to  me  in  my  con¬ 
fusion —  now  stood  where  none  had  been  perceptible 


WILLIAM  WILSON 


181 


before  |  and,  as  I  stepped  up  to  it  in  extremity  of 
terror,  mine  own  image,  but  with  features  all  pale  and 
dabbled  in  blood,  advanced  to  meet  me  with  a  feeble 
and  tottering  gait. 

Thus  it  appeared,  I  say,  but  was  not.  It  was  my 
antagonist  —  it  was  Wilson,  who  then  stood  before 
me  in  the  agonies  of  his  dissolution.  His  mask  and 
cloak  lay,  where  he  had  thrown  them,  upon  the  floor. 
Not  a  thread  in  all  his  raiment  —  not  a  line  in  all  the 
marked  and  singular  lineaments  of  his  face  which  was 
not,  even  in  the  most  absolute  identity,  mine  own! 

It  was  Wilson ;  but  he  spoke  no  longer  in  a  whis¬ 
per,  and  I  could  have  fancied  that  I  myself  was  speak¬ 
ing  while  he  said :  — 

“  You  have  conquered,  and  I  yield.  Yet,  henceforward 
art  thou  also  dead  —  dead  to  the  World,  to  Heaven,  and 
to  Hope  !  In  me  didst  thou  exist — and,  in  my  death, 
see  hy  this  image,  which  is  thine  own,  how  utterly  thou 
hast  murdered  thyselp^ 

\  v\ 


FI 

m 


tV 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM'' 

The  ways  of  God  in  Nature,  as  in  Providence,  are  not  as  our 
ways  ;  nor  are  the  models  that  we  frame  any  way  commensurate 
to  the  vastness,  profundity,  and  unsearchableness  of  His  works, 
which  have  a  depth  in  them  greater  than  the  well  of  Democritus. 

Joseph  Glanvill. 

We  had  now  reached  the  summit  of  the  loftiest 
crag.  For  some  minutes  the  old  man  seemed  too 
much  exhausted  to  speak. 

‘‘Not  long  ago/’  said  he  at  length,  “and  I  could 
have  guided  you  on  this  route  as  well  as  the  youngest 
of  my  sons;  but,  about  three  years  past,  there 
happened  to  me  an  event  such  as  never  happened 
before  to  mortal  man  —  or  at  least  such  as  no  man 
ever  survived  to  tell  of  —  and  the  six  hours  of  deadly 
terror  which  I  then  endured  have  broken  me  up  body 
and  soul.  You  suppose  me  a  very  old  man  —  but  I 
am  not.  It  took  less  than  a  single  day  to  change 
these  hairs  from  a  jetty  black  to  white,  to  weaken  my 
limbs,  and  to  unstring  my  nerves,  so  that  I  tremble 
at  the  least  exertion,  and  am  frightened  at  a  shadow. 


^  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM  183 

« 

Do  you  know  I  can  scarcely  look  over  this  little  cliff 
without  getting  giddy  ?  ’’ 

The  “  little  cliff/’  upon  whose  edge  he  had  so  care- 
I  lessly  thrown  himself  down  to  rest  that  the  weightier 
I  portion  of  his  body  hung  over  it,  while  he  was  only 
kept  from  falling  by  the  tenure  of  his  elbow  on  its 
extreme  and  slippery  edge  —  this  little  cliff  ”  arose, 
a  sheer  unobstructed  precipice  of  black  shining  rock, 
some  fifteen  or  sixteen  hundred  feet  from  the  world 
of  crags  beneath  us.  Nothing  would  have  tempted 
me  to  within  half  a  dozen  yards  of  its  brink.  In 
I  truth  so  deeply  was  I  excited  by  the  perilous  position 
!  of  my  companion,  that  I  fell  at  full  length  upon  the 
ground,  clung  to  the  shrubs  around  me,  and  dared 
not  even  glance  upward  at  the  sky  —  while  I  struggled 
'  in  vain  to  divest  myself  of  the  idea  that  the  very 
foundations  of  the  mountain  were  in  danger  from 
the  fury  of  the  winds.  It  was  long  before  I  could 
reason  myself  into  sufficient  courage  to  sit  up  and 
look  out  into  the  distance. 

You  must  get  over  these  fancies,”  said  the  guide, 
^^for  I  have  brought  you  here  that  you  might  have 
the  best  possible  view  of  the  scene  of  that  event  I 
mentioned  —  and  to  tell  you  the  whole  story  with  the 
spot  just  under  your  eye. 


184  A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 


We  are  now,”  he  continned,  in  that  particularizing 
manner  which  distinguished  him  —  “  we  are  now  close 
upon  the-Norweg^iaujmat:^  in  the  sixty-eighth  degree 
of  latitude  —  in  the  great  province  of  Nordland  —  and 
in  the  dreary  district  of  Lofoden.  The  mountain 
upon  whose  top  we  sit  is  Helseggen,  the  Cloudy. 
Now  raise  yourself  up  a  little  higher  —  hold  on  to  the 
grass  if  you  feel  giddy  —  so  —  and  look  out,  beyond 
the  belt  of  vapor  beneath  us,  into  the  sea.” 

I  looked  dizzily,  and  beheld  a  wide  expanse  of 
ocean,  whose  waters  wore  so  inky  a  hue  as  to  bring  at 
once  to  my  mind  the  Nubian  geographer’s  account  of 
the  Mare  Tenehrarum.  A  panorama  more  deplorably 
desolate  no  human  imagination  can  conceive.  To  tne 
right  and  left,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  there  lay 
outstretched,  like  ramparts  of  the  world,  lines  of 
horridly  black  and  beetling  cliff,  whose  character  of 
gloom  was  but  the  more  forcibly  illustrated  by  the 
surf  which  reared  high  up  against  it  its  white  and 
ghastly  crest,  howling  and  shrieking  forever.  Just 
opposite  the  promontory  upon  whose  apex  we  were 
placed,  and  at  a  distance  of  some  five  or  six  miles  out 
at  sea,  there  was  visible  a  small,  bleak-looking  island  ^ 
or,  more  properly,  its  position  was  discernible  through 
the  wil(^erness  of  surge  in  which  it  was  enveloped. 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM  185 

About  two  miles  nearer  the  land  arose  another  of 
smaller  size,  hideously  craggy  and  b^ren,  and  encom¬ 
passed  at  various  intervals  by  a  cluster  of  dark  rocks. 

The  appearance  of  the  ocean,  in  the  space  between 
the  more  distant  island  and  the  shore,  had  something 
very  unusual  about  it.  Although,  at  the  time,  so 
strong  a  gale  was  blowing  landward  that  a  brig  in  the 
remote  offing  lay  to  under  a  double-reefed  trysail,  and 
constantly  plunged  her  whole  hull  out  of  sight,  still 
there  was  here  nothing  like  a  regular  swell,  but  only  a 
short,  quick,  angry  cross-dashing  of  water  in  every 
direction  —  as  well  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind  as  other¬ 
wise.  Of  foam  there  was  little  except  in  the  imme- 
aiate  vicinity  of  the  rocks. 

The  island  in  the  distance,’’  resumed  the  old  man, 
^^is  called  by  the  Norwegians  Yurrgh.  The  one  mid¬ 
way  is  Moskoe.  That  a  mile  to  the  northward  is 
Ambaaren.  Yonder  are  Iflesen,  Hoeyholm,  Kieldholm, 
Suarven,  and  Buckholm.  Farther  off  —  between  Mos¬ 
koe  and  Vurrgh  —  are  Otterholm,  Flimen,  Sandflesen, 
and  Skarholm.  These  are  the  true  names  of  the 
places  —  but  why  it  has  been  thought  necessary  to 
name  them  at  all  is  more  than  either  you  or  I  can 
understand.  Do  you  hear  anything?  Do  you  see 
any  change  in  the  water  ?  ” 


186  A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 


We  had  now  been  about  ten  minutes  upon  the  top 
of  Helseggen,  to  which  we  had  ascended  from  the 
interior  of  Lofoden,  so  that  we  had  caught  no  glimpse 
of  the  sea  until  it  had  burst  upon  us  from  the  summit. 
As  the  old  man  spoke,  I  became  aware  of  a  loud  and 
gradually  increasing  sound,  like  the  moaning  of  a  vast 
herd  of  buffaloes  upon  an  American  prairie ;  and  at 
the  same  moment  I  perceived  that  what  seamen  term 
the  chopping  character  of  the  ocean  beneath  us,  was 
rapidly  changing  into  a  current  which  set  to  the  east¬ 
ward.  Even  while  I  gazed,  this  current  acquired  a 
monstrous  velocity.  Each  moment  added  to  its  speed 
—  to  its  headlong  impetuosity.  In  five  minutes  the 
whole  sea,  as  far  as  Vurrgh,  was  lashed  into  ungov¬ 
ernable  fury;  but  it  was  between  Moskoe  and  the 
coast  that  the  main  uproar  held  its  sway.  t[pere  the 
vast  bed  of  the  waters,  seamed  and  scarred  into  a 
thousand  conflicting  channels,  burst  suddenly  into 
frenzied  convulsion  —  heaving,  boiling,  hissing  —  gy¬ 
rating  in  gigantic  and  innumerable  vortices,  and  all 
whirling  and  plunging  on  to  the  eastward  with  a 
rapidity  v/hich  water  never  elsewhere  assumes,  except 
in  precipitous  descents. 

L^In  a  few  minutes  more,  there  came  over  the  scene 
another  radical  alteration.  The  general  surface  grew 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM  187 

somewhat  more  smooth,  and  the  whirlpools,  one  by 
one,  disappeared,  while  prodigious  streaks  of  foam 
became  apparent  where  none  had  been  seen  before. 
These  streaks,  at  length,  spreading  out  to  a  great  dis¬ 
tance,  and  entering  into  combination,  took  unto  them¬ 
selves  the  gyratory  motion  of  the  subsided  vortices, 
and  seemed  to  form  the  germ  of  another  more  vast. 
Suddenly  —  very  suddenly  —  this  assumed  a  distinct 
and  definite  existence,  in  a  circle  of  more  than  a  mile 
in  diameter.  The  edge  of  the  whirl  was  represented 
by  a  broad  belt  of  gleaming  spray ;  but  no  particle  of 
this  slipped  into  the  mouth  of  the  terrific  funnel,  whose 
interior,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  fathom  it,  was  a  smooth,^ 
shining,  and  jet-black  wall  of  water,  inclined  to  the 
horizon  at  an  angle  of  some  forty-five  degrees,  speed¬ 
ing  dizzily  round  and  round  with  a  swaying  and 
sweltering  motion,  and  sending  forth  to  the  winds  an 
appalling  voice,  half  shriek,  half  roar,  such  as  not 
even  the  mighty  cataract  of  Niagara  ever  lifts  up  in  its 
agony  to  Heaven. 

The  mountain  trembled  to  its  very  base,  and  the 
rock  rocked.  I  threw  myself  upon  my  face,  and 
clung  to  the  scant  herbage  in  an  excess  of  nervous 

agitation. 

“This,”  said  I  at  length,  to  the  old  man— '‘this 


188  A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 


can  be  nothing  else  than  the  great  whirlpool  of  the 
Maelstrom.’’ 

‘^So  it  is  sometimes  termed,”  said  he.  ^^We  Nor¬ 
wegians  call  it  the  Moskoe-strom,  from  the  island  of 
Moskoe  in  the  midway.” 

The  ordinary  accounts  of  this  vortex  had  by  no  | 
means  prepared  me  for  what  I  saw.  That  of  Jonas  i 

Ramus,  which  is  perhaps  the  most  circumstantial  of  i 
any,  cannot  impart  the  faintest  conception  either  of  i 
the  magnificence  or  of  the  horror,  of  ' the  scene  — or 
of  the  wild  bewildering  sense  of  the  novel  which  con¬ 
founds  the  beholder.  I  am  not  sure  from  what  point 
of  view  the  writer  in  question  surveyed  it,  nor  at  what 
time ;  but  it  could  neither  have  been  from  the  summit 
of  Helseggen,  nor  during  a  storm.  There  are  some 
passages  of  his  description,  nevertheless,  which  may 
be  quoted  for  their  details,  although  their  effect  is 
exceedingly  feeble  in  conveying  an  impression  of  the 
spectacle. 

‘‘Between  Lofoden  and  Moskoe,”  he  says,  “the 
depth  of  the  water  is  between  thirty-six  and  forty 
fathoms  ;  but  on  the  other  side,  toward  Ver  (Vurrgh), 
this  depth  decreases  so  as  not  to  afford  a  convenient 
passage  for  a  vessel,  without  the  risk  of  splitting  on 
the  rocks,  which  happens  even  in  the  calmest  weather. 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM  189 


Wh6n  it  is  flood,  the  stream  runs  up  the  country 
between  Lofoden  and  Moskoe  with  a  boisterous  rapid¬ 
ity  ;  but  the  roar  of  its  impetuous  ebb  to  the  sea  is 
scarce  equalled  by  the  loudest  and  most  dreadful 
cataracts,  the  noise  being  heard  several  leagues  off; 
and  the  vortices  or  pits  are  of  such  an  extent  and 
depth,  that  if  a  ship  comes  within  its  attraction,  it  is 
inevitably  absorbed  and  carried  down  to  the  bottom, 
and  there  beat  to  pieces  against  the  rocks ;  and  w  hen 
the  water  relaxes,  the  fragments  thereof  are  thrown 
up  again.  But  these  intervals  of  tranquillity  are  only 
at  the  turn  of  the  ebb  and  flood,  and  in  calm  weather, 
and  last  but  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  its  violence  gradu¬ 
ally  returning.  When  the  stream  is  most  boisterous, 
and  its  fury  heightened  by  a  storm,  it  is  dangerous  to 
come  within  a  Norway  mile  of  it.  Boats,  yachts,  and 
ships  have  been  carried  away  by  not  guarding  against 
it  before  they  were  within  its  reach.  It  likewise 
happens  frequently  that  whales  come  too  near  the 
stream,  and  are  overpowered  by  its  violence;  and 
then  it  is  impossible  to  describe  their  bowlings  and 
bellowings  in  their  fruitless  struggles  to  disengage 
themselves.  A  bear  once,  attempting  to  swim  from 
Lofoden  to  Moskoe,  was  caught  by  the  stream  and 
borne  down,  while  he  roared  terribly,  so  as  to  be 


190  A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 

heard  on  shore.  Large  stocks  of  firs  and  pine  trees, 
after  being  absorbed  by  the  current,  rise  again  broken 
and  torn  to  such  a  degree  as  if  bristles  grew  upon 
them.  This  plainly  shows  the  bottom  to  consist  of 
craggy  rocks,  among  which  they  are  whirled  to  and 
Jfro.  This  stream  is  regulated  by  the  flux  and  reflux 
of  the  sea  —  it  being  constantly  high  and  low  water 
every  six  hours.  {Xn  the  year  1645,  early  in  the  morn¬ 
ing  of  Sexagesima  Sunday,  it  raged  with  such  noise 
and  impetuosity  that  the  very  stones  of  the  houses  on 
the  coast  fell  to  the  ground.” 

In  regard  to  the  depth  of  the  water,  I  could  not 
see  how  this  could  have  been  ascertained  at  all 
in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  vortex.  The  “  forty 
fathoms”  must  have  reference  only  to  portions  of 
the  channel  close  upon  the  shore  either  of  Moskoe  or 
Lofoden.  The  depth  in  the  centre  of  the  Moskoe- 
strom  must  be  immeasurably  greater;  and  no  better 
proof  of  this  fact  is  necessary  than  can  be  obtained 
from  even  the  sidelong  glance  into  the  abyss  of  the 
whirl  which  may  be  had  from  the  highest  crag  of 
Helseggen.  Looking  down  from  this  pinnacle  upon 
the  howling  Phlegethon  below,  I  could  not  help  smil¬ 
ing  at  the  simplicity  with  which  the  honest  Jonas 
Eamus  records,  as  a  matter  difficult  of  belief,  the 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM  191 


anecdotes  of  the  whales  and  the  bears ;  for  it  appeared 
to  me,  in  fact,  a  self-evident  thing  that  the  largest 
ships  of  the  line  in  existence,  coming  within  the  influ¬ 
ence  of  that  deadly  attraction,  could  resist  it  as  little 
as  a  feather  the  hurricane,  arid  must  disappear  bodily 

;  and  at  once. 

I  _ 

I  The  attempts  to  account  for  the  phenomenon  — 
some  of  which,  I  remember,  seemed  to  me  sufficiently 
plausible  in  perusal  —  now  wore  a  very  different  and 
unsatisfactory  aspect.  The  idea  generally  received  is 
that  this,  as  well  as  three  smaller  vortices  among  the 
Feroe  Islands,  “have  no  other  cause  than  the  colli¬ 
sion  of  waves  rising  and  falling,  at  flux  and  reflux, 
against  a  ridge  of  rocks  and  shelves,  which  confines 
the  water  so  that  it  precipitates  itself  like  a  cataract ; 
and  thus  the  higher  the  flood  rises,  the  deeper  must 
the  fall  be,  and  the  natural  result  of  all  is  a  whirlpool 
or  vortex,  the  prodigious  suction  of  which  is  sufficiently' 
known  by  lesser  experiments.’’  —  These  are  the  words 
of  the  “Encyclopaedia  Britannica.”  Kircher  and  others 
imagine  that  in  the  centre  of  the  channel  of  the  Mael¬ 
strom  is  an  abyss  penetrating  the  globe,  and  issuing 
in  some  very  remote  part  —  the  Gulf  of  Bothnia  being 
somewhat  decidedly  named  in  one  instance.  This 
opinion,  idle  in  itself,  was  the  one  to  which,  as  I  gazed, 


192  A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTR6iI 

my  imagination  most  readily  assented ;  and,  mention-  ' 
ing  it  to  the  guide,  I  was  rather  surprised  to  hear  him  ' 
say  that,  although  it  was  the  view  almost  universally  i| 
entertained  of  the  subject  by  the  Norwegians,  it  never-  J 
theless  was  not  his  own.  As  to  the  former  notion  he 
/  confessed  his  inability  to  comprehend  it ;  and  here  I 
agreed  with  him  —  for,  however  conclusive  on  paper, 
it  becomes  altogether  unintelligible,  and  even  absurd, 
amid  the  thunder  of  the  abys*s. 

You  have  had  a  good  look  at  the  whirl  now,”  said  ! 
the  old  man,  “  and  if  you  will  creep  round  this  crag, 
so  as  to  get  in  its  lee,  and  deaden  the  roar  of  the 
water,  I  will  tell  you  a  story  that  will  convince  you  I  i 
ought  to  know  something  of  the  Moskoe-strom.” 

I  placed  myself  as  desired,  and  he  proceeded. 

Myself  and  my  two  brothers  once  owned  a  schooner- 
rigged  smack  of  about  seventy  tons’  burden,  with  which 
'  we  were  in  the  habit  of  fishing  among  the  islands  be¬ 
yond  Moskoe,  nearly  to  Vurrgh.  In  all  violent  eddies  ' 
at  sea  there  is  good  fishing,  at  proper  opportunities,  i 
if  one  has  only  the  courage  to  attempt  it ;  but  among 
the  whole  of  the  Lofoden  coastmen  we  three  were  the 
only  ones  who  made  a  regular  business  of  going  out 
to  the  islands,  as  I  tell  you.  The  usual  grounds  are 
a  great  way  lower  down  to  the  southward.  There 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM  193 

fish  can  be  got  at  all  hours,  without  much  risk,  and 
therefore  these  places  are  preferred.  The  choice 
spots  over  here  among  the  rocks,  however,  not  only 
:  yield  the  finest  variety,  but  in  far  greater  abundance  ; 

so  that  we  often  got  in  a  single  day^  what  the  more 
I  timid  of  the  craft  could  not  scrape  together  in  a  week. 

I  In  fact,  we  made  it  a  matter  of  desperate  speculation 
;  _ the  risk  of  life  standing  instead  of  labor,  and  cour¬ 

age  answering  for  capital. 

We  kept  the  smack  in  a  cove  about  five  miles 
higher  up  the  coast  than  this  ;  and  it  was  our  practice, 
in  fine  weather,  to  take  advantage  of  the  fifteen  min¬ 
utes’  slack  to  push  across  the  main  channel  of  the 
Moskoe-strom,  far  above  the  pool,  and  then  drop  down 
upon  anchorage  somewhere  near  Otterholm,  or  Sand- 
flesen,  where  the  eddies  are  not  so  violent  as  else¬ 
where.  Here  we  used  to  remain  until  nearly  time  for 
slack-water  again,  when  we  weighed  and  made  for 
home.  We  never  set  out  upon  this  expedition  with¬ 
out  a  steady  side  wind  for  going  and  coming  —  one 
that  we  felt  sure  would  not  fail  us  before  our  return 
—  and  we  seldom  made  a  miscalculation  upon  this 
point.  Twice,  during  six  years,  we  were  forced  to 
stay  all  night  at  anchor  on  account  of  a  dead  calm, 
which  is  a  rare  thing  indeed  just  about  here  5  and 


194  A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 

once  we  had  to  remain  on  the  grounds  nearly  a  week,  i 
starving  to  death,  owing  to  a  gale  which  blew  up 
shortly  after  our  arrival,  and  made  the  channel  too 
boisterous  to  be  thought  of.  Upon  this  occasion  we  < 
should  have  been  driven  out  to  sea  in  spite  of  every¬ 
thing  (for  the  whirlpools  threw  us  round  and  round  so 
violently  that,  at  length,  we  fouled  our  anchor  and 
dragged  it)  if  it  had  not  been  that  we  drifted  into  one 
of  the  innumerable  cross  currents  —  here  to-day  and 
gone  to-morrow  —  which  drove  us  under  the  lee  of  ! 
Flimen,  where,  by  good  luck,  we  brought  up. 

I  could  not  tell  you  the  twentieth  part  of  the  diffi¬ 
culties  we  encountered  ^  on  the  ground  ^  —  it  is  a  bad 
spot  to  b#^n,  even  in  good^weather  —  but  we  made 
shift  always  to  run  the  gamff^t  of  the  Moskoe-strbm  j 
itself  without  accident;  although  at  times  my  heart 
has  been  in  my  mouth  when  we  happened  to  be  a 
minute  or  so  behind  or  before  the  slack.  The  wind 
sometimes  was  not  as  strong  as  we  thought  it  at  start¬ 
ing,  and  then  we  made  rather  less  way  than  we  could 
wish,  while  the  current  rendered  the  smack  unman¬ 
ageable.  My  eldest  brother  had  a  son  eighteen  years 
old,  and  I  had  two  stout  boys  of  my  own.  These 
would  have  been  of  great  assistance  at  such  times,  in 
using  the  sweeps,  as  well  as  afterward  in  fishing  — 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM  195 

but,  somehow,  although  we  ran  the  risk  ourselves,  we 
had  not  the  heart  to  let  the  young  ones  get  into 
the  danger  —  for,  after  all  said  and  done,  it  was  a 
horrible  danger,  and  that  is  the  truth. 

“  It  is  now  within  a  few  days  of  three  years  since 
what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  occurred.  It  was  on  the 
tenth  of  July,  18 — ,  a  day  which  the  people  of  this 
part  of  the  world  will  never  forget  —  for  it  was  one 
in  which  blew  the  most  terrible  hurricane  that  ever 
came  out  of  the  heavens.  And  yet  all  the  morning, 
and  indeed  until  late  in  the  afternoon,  there  was  a 
gentle  and  steady  breeze  from  the  southwest,  while 
the  sun  shone  brightly,  so  that  the  oldest  seaman 
among  us  could  not  have  foreseen  what  was  to  follow. 

“  The  three  of  us  —  my  two  brothers  and  myself  — 
had  crossed  over  to  the  island  about  two  o’clock  p.m., 
and  soon  nearly  loaded  the  smack  with  fine  fish, 
which,  we  all  remarked,  were  more  plenty  that  day 
than  we  -had  ever  known  them.  It  was  just  seven, 
by  my  watch,  when  we  weighed  and  started  for  home, 
so  as  to  make  the  worst  of  the  Strom  at  slack  water, 
which  we  knew  would  be  at  eight. 

We  set  out  with  a  fresh  wind  on  our  starboard 
quarter,  and  for  some  time  -spanked  along  at  a  great 
rate,  never  dreaming  of  danger,  for  indeed  we  saw 


196  A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 

not  the  slightest  reason  to  apprehend  it.  All  at  once 
we  were  taken  aback  by  a  breeze  from  over  Helseg- 
gen.  This  was  most  unusual  —  something  that  had 
never  happened  to  us  before  —  and  I  began  to  feel 
a  little  uneasy,  without  exactly  knowing  why.  We 
put  the  boat  on  the  wind,  but  could  make  no  head¬ 
way  at  all  for  the  eddies,  and  I  was  upon  the  point  of 
proposing  to  return  to  the  anchorage,  when,  looking 
astern,  we  saw  the  whole  horizon  covered  with  a  sin¬ 
gular  copper-colored  cloud  that  rose  with  the  most 
amazing  velocity. 

“  In  the  meantime  the  breeze  that  had  headed  us 
off  fell  away,  and  we  were  dead  becalmed,  drifting 
about  in  every  direction.  This  state  of  things,  how¬ 
ever,  did  not  last  long  enough  to  give  us  time  to  think 
about  it.  In  less  than  a  minute  the  storm  was  upon 
us  —  in  less  than  two  the  sky  was  entirely  overcast  — 
and  what  with  this  and  the  driving  spray,  it  became 
suddenly  so  dark  that  we  could  not  see  each  other  in 
the  smack. 

“  Such  a  hurricane  as  then  blew  it  is  folly  to  at¬ 
tempt  describing.  The  oldest  seamen  in  hTorway 
never  experienced  anything  like  it.  We  had  let  our 
sails  go  by  the  run  before  it  cleverly  took  us ;  but, 
at  the  first  puff  both  our  masts  went  by  the  board  as 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM  197 

if  they  had  been  sawed  off  — the  mainmast  taking  with 
it  my  youngest  brother,  who  had  lashed  himself  to  it 
for  safety. 

“  Our  boat  was  the  lightest  feather  of  a  thing  that 
ever  sat  upon  water.  It  had  a  complete  flush  deck,  ‘ 
with  only  a  small  hatch  near  the  bow,  and  this  hatch 
it  had  always  been  our  custom  to  batten  down  when 
about  to  cross  the  Strom,  by  way  of  precaution 
against  the  chopping  seas.  But  for  this  circumstance 
we  should  have  foundered  at  once  —  for  we  lay 
entirely  buried  for  some  moments.  How  my  elder 
brother  escaped  destruction  I  cannot  say,  for  I  never 
had  an  opportunity  of  ascertaining.  Bor  my  part,  as 
soon  as  I  had -let  the  foresail  run,  I  threw  myself  flat 
on  deck,  with  my  feet  against  the  narrow  gunwale  of 
the  bow,  and  with  my  hands  grasping  a  ringbolt  near 
the  foot  of  the  foremast.  It  was  mere  instinct  that 
prompted  me  to  do  this  —  which  was  undoubtedly  the 
very  best  thing  I  could  have  done  —  for  I  was  too 
much  flurried  to  think. 

Bor  some  moments  we  were  completely  deluged, 
as  I  say,  and  all  this  time  I  held  my  breath,  and 
clung  to  the  bolt.  When  I  could  stand  it  no  longer 
I  raised  myself  upon  my  knees,  still  keeping  hold 
with  my  hands,  and  thus  got  my  head  clear.  Pres* 


198 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 


ently  our  little  boat  gave  herself  a  shake,  just  as  a 
dog  does  in  coming  out  of  the  water,  and  thus  rid  j 
herself,  in  some  measure,  of  the  seas.  I  was  now  | 
trying  to  get  the  better  of  the  stupor  that  had  come  ' 
over  me,  and  to  collect  my  senses  so  as  to  see  what  i 
was  to  be  done,  when  I  felt  somebody  grasp  my  arm.  1 
It  was  my  elder  brother,  and  my  heart  leaped  for  joy,  I 
for  I  had  made  sure  that  he  was  overboard  —  but  the  i 
next  moment  all  this  joy  was  turned  into  horror  —  for  I 
he  put  his  mouth  close  to  my  ear,  and  screamed  out  ; 
the  word  ^  Moskoe-strom  !  ’  i 

^^No  one  will  ever  know  what  my  feelings  were  at  : 
that  moment.  I  shook  from  head  to  foot  as  if  I  had  i 
had  the  most  violent  fit  of  the  ague.  I  knew  what  he  i 
meant  by  that  one  word  well  enough  —  I  knew  what  i 
he  wished  to  make  me  understand.  With  the  wind 
that  now  drove  us  on,  we  were  bound  for  the  whirl 
of  the  Strom,  and  nothing  could  save  us  ! 

“  You  perceive  that  in  crossing  the  Strom  channel, 
we  always  went  a  long  way  up  above  the  whirl,  even 
in  the  calmest  weather,  and  then  had  to  wait  and 
watch  carefully  for  the  slack  — but  now  we  were  driv¬ 
ing  right  upon  the  pool  itself,  and  in  such  a  hurricane 
as  this  !  <  To  be  sure,’  I  thought,  <  we  shall  get  there  i 

just  about  the  slack  —  there  is  some  little  hope  in 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM  199 

that’  —  but  in  the  next  moment  I  cursed  myself  for 
being  so  great  a  fool  as  to  dream  of  hope  at  all.  I 
knew  very  well  that  we  were  doomed,  had  we  been 
ten  times  a  ninety-gun  ship. 

“  By  this  time  the  first  fury  of  the  tempest  had 
spent  itself,  or  perhaps  we  did  not  feel  it  so  much 
as  we  scudded  before  it;  but  at  all  events  the  seas, 
which  at  first  had  been  kept  down  by  the  wind,  and 
lay  fiat  and  frothing,  now  got  up  into  absolute  moun¬ 
tains.  A  singular  change,  too,  had  come  over  the 
heavens.  Around  in  every  direction  it  was  still  as 
black  as  pitch,  but  nearly  overhead  there  burst  out, 
all  at  once,  a  circular  rift  of  clear  sky  —  as  clear  as  I 
ever  saw  —  and  of  a  deep  bright  blue  —  and  through 
it  there  blazed  forth  the  full  moon  with  a  lustre  that 
I  never  before  knew  her  to  wear.  She  lit  up  every¬ 
thing  about  us  with  the  greatest  distinctness — but, 
oh  God,  what  a  scene  it  was  to  light  up ! 

I  now  made  one  or  two  attempts  to  speak  to  my 
brother  —  but  in  some  manner  which  I  could  not  un¬ 
derstand,  the  din  had  so  increased  that  I  could  not 
make  him  hear  a  single  word,  although  I  screamed 
at  the  top  of  my  voice  in  his  ear.  Presently  he  shook 
his  head,  looking  as  pale  as  death,  and  held  up  one 
of  his  fingers,  as  if  to  say  listen  I 


/ 


200 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 


At  first  I  could  not  make  out  what  he  meant  — 
but  soon  a  hideous  thought  flashed  upon  me.  I 
dragged  my  watch  from  its  fob.  It  was  not  going. 

I  glanced  at  its  face  by  the  moonlight,  and  then  < 
burst  into  tears  as  I  flung  it  far  away  into  the  ocean.  | 
It  had  run  down  at  seven  clock!  We  were  behind 
the  time  of  the  slack,  and  the  vMrl  of  the  Strom  was 
in  full  fury  ! 

When  a  boat  is  well  built,  properly  trimmed,  and 
not  deep  laden,  the  waves  in  a  strong  gale,  when  she  , 
is  going  large,  seem  always  to  slip  from  beneath  her  | 
—  which  appears  very  strange  to  a  landsman  —  and  i 
this  is  what  is  called  riding,  in  sea  phrase.  i 

‘^Well,  so  far  we  had  ridden  the  swells  very  j 
cleverly;  but  presently  a  gigantic  sea  happened  to 
take  us  right  under  the  counter,  and  bore  us  with  it 
as  it  rose  —  up  —  up  —  as  if  into  the  sky.  I  would 
not  have  believed  that  any  wave  could  rise  so  high. 
And  then  down  we  came  with  a  sweep,  a  slide,  and  a 
plunge,  that  made  me  feel  sick  and  dizzy,  as  if  I  was 
falling  from  some  lofty  mountain-top  in  a  dream. 
But  while  we  were  up  I  had  thrown  a  quick  glance  i 
around  —  and  that  one  glance  was  all-sufficient.  I  | 
saw  our  exact  position  in  an  instant.  The  Moskoe- 
strom  whirlpool  was  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  dead 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 


201 


ahead  —  but  no  more  like  the  everyday  Moskoe-strom, 
than  the  whirl  as  you  now  see  it  is  like  a  mill-race. 
If  I  had  not  known  where  we  were,  and  what  we  had 
to  expect,  I  should  not  have  recognized  the  place  at 
all.  As  it  was,  I  involuntarily  closed  my  eyes  in 
horror.  The  lids  clenched  themselves  together  as  if 
in  a  spasm. 

‘‘It  could  not  have  been  more  than  two  minutes 
afterwards  until  we  suddenly  felt  the  waves  subside, 
and  were  enveloped  in  foam.  The  boat  made  a 
sharp  half  turn  to  larboard,  and  then  shot  off  in 
its  new  direction  like  a  thunderbolt.  At  the  same 
moment  the  roaring  noise  of  the  water  was  completely 
drowned  in  a  kind  of  shrill  shriek  —  such  a  sound  as 
you  might  imagine  given  out  by  the  water-pipes  of 
many  thousand  steam  vessels,  letting  off  their  steam 
all  together.  We  were  now  in  the  belt  of  surf  that 
always  surrounds  the  whirl ;  and  I  thought,  of  course, 
that  another  moment  would  plunge  us  into  the  abyss 
—  down  which  we  could  only  see  indistinctly  on 
account  of  the  amazing  velocity  with  which  we  were 
borne  along.  The  boat  did  not  seem  to  sink  into  the 
water  at  all,  but  to  skim  like  an  air-bubble  upon  the 
surface  of  the  surge.  Her  starboard  side  was  next 
the  whirl,  and  on  the  larboard  arose  the  world  of 


202 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 


ocean  we  had  left.  It  stood  like  a  huge  writhing  i 
wall  between  us  and  the  horizon. 

^^It  may  appear  strange,  but  now,  when  we  were  in 
the  very  jaws  of  the  gulf,  I  felt  moye  composed  than  ^ 
when  we  were  only  approaching  it.  Having  made  up  | 
my  mind  to  hope  no  more,  I  got  rid  of  a  great  deal  of  ' 
that  terror  which  unmanned  me  at  first.  I  suppose  j 
it  was  despair  that  strung  my  nerves.  [ 

It  may  look  like  boasting  —  but  what  I  tell  you  is  | 
truth  —  I  began  to  reflect  how  magnificent  a  thing  it  ! 
was  to  die  in  such  a  manner,  and  how  foolish  it  was  1 
in  me  to  think  of  so  paltry  a  consideration  as  my  own  ' 
individual  life,  in  view  of  so  wonderful  a  manifestation  | 
of  God’s  power.  I  do  believe  that  I  blushed  with  | 
shame  when  this  idea  crossed  my  mind.  After  a  little  j 
while  I  became  possessed  with  the  keenest  curiosity 
‘about  the  whirl  itself.  I  positively  felt  a  wish  to 
explore  its  depths,  even  at  the  sacrifice  I  was  going 
to  make ;  and  my  principal  grief  ‘was  that  I  should 
never  be  able  to  tell  my  old  companions  on  shore  j 
about  the  mysteries  I  should  see.  These,  no  doubt, 
were  singular  fancies  to  occupy  a  man’s  mind  in  such 
extremity  —  and  I  have  often  thought,  since,  that  the 
revolutions  of  the  boat  around  the  pool  might  hav3  ; 
rendered  me  a  little  light-headed. 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 


203 


“  There  was  another  circumstance  which  tended  to 
1  restore  my  self-possession ;  and  this  was  the  cessation 
'  of  the  wind,  which  could  not  reach  us  in  our  present 
'  situation  —  for,  as  you  saw  yoursfelf,  the  belt  of  surf  is 
(  considerably  lower  than  the  general  bed  of  the  ocean, 
and  this  latter  now  towered  above  us,  a  high,  black, 
mountainous  ridge.  If  you  have  never  been  at  sea  in 
a  heavy  gale,  you  can  form  no  idea  of  the  confusion 
of  mind  occasioned  by  the  wind  and  spray  together. 
They  blind,  deafen,  and  strangle  you,  and  take  away 
all  power  of  action  or  reflection.  But  we  were  now, 
in  a  great  measure,  rid  of  these  annoyances  —  just  as 
death-condemned  felons  in  prison  are  allowed  petty 
indulgences,  forbidden  them  while  their  doom  is  yet 
uncertain. 

‘^How  often  we  made  the  circuit  of  the  belt  it  is 
impossible  to  say.  We  careered  round  and  round  for 
perhaps  an  hour,  flying  rather  than  floating,  getting 
gradually  more  and  more  into  the  middle  of  the  surge, 
and  then  nearer  and  nearer  to  its  horrible  inner  edge. 
All  this  time  I  had  never  let  go  of  the  ringbolt.  My 
brother  was  at  the  stern,  holding  on  to  a  small  empty 
water-cask  which  had  been  securely  lashed  under  the 
coop  of  the  counter,  and  was  the  only  thing  on  deck 
that  had  not  been  swept  overboard  v/hen  the  gale  first 


204  A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM  ^ 

2‘.\ 

'•I- 

took  us.  As  we  approached  the  brink  of  the  pit  he  | 
let  go  his  hold  upon  this,  and  made  for  the  ring,  from 
which,  in  the  agony  of  his  terror,  he  endeavored  to 
force  my  hands,  as  it  was  not  large  enough  to  afford 
us  both  a  secure  gr^P-  I  never  felt  deeper  grief 
than  when  I  saw  him  attempt  this  act  —  although  I 
knew  he  was  a  madman  when  he  did  it  —  a  raving 
maniac  through  sheer  fright.  I  did  not  care,  how¬ 
ever,  to  contest  the  point  with  him.  I  knew  it  could 
make  no  difference  whether  either  of  us  held  on  at 
all ;  so  I  let  him  have  the  bolt,  and  went  astern  to  the  | 
cask.  This  there  was  no  great  difficulty  in  doing ;  for  j 
the  smack  flew  round  steadily  enough,  and  upon  an  j 
even  keel  —  only  swaying  to  and  fro,  with  the  immense  | 
sweeps  and  swelters  of  the  whirl.  Scarcely  had  I 
secured  myself  in  my  new  position,  when  we  gave  a 
wild  lurch  to  starboard,  and  rushed  headlong  into  the 
abyss.  I  muttered  a  hurried  prayer  to  God,  and 
thought  all  was  over. 

^‘As  I  felt  the  sickening  sweep  of  the  descent,  I 
had  instinctively  tightened  my  hold  upon  the  barrel, 
and  closed  my  eyes.  For  some  seconds  I  dared  not 
open  them  —  while  I  expected  instant  destruction,  and 
wondered  that  I  was  not  already  in  my  death-struggles 
with  the  water.  But  moment  after  moment  elapsed. 


205 


A  DESCEifT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 

I  Still  lived.  The  sense  of  falling  had  ceased;  and 
tie  motion  of  the  vessel  seemed  much  as  it  had  been 

e  ore,  while  in  the  belt  of  foam,  with  the  exception 
^  that  she  now  lay  more  along.  I  took  courage  and 
looked  once  again  upon  the  scene. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  sensations  of  awe,  horror 
an  admiration  with  which  I  gazed  about  me.  The 
boat  appeared  to  be  hanging,  as  if  by  magic,  midway 
down,  upon  the  interior  surface  of  a  funnel  vast  in 
circumference,  prodigious  in  depth,  and  whose  per¬ 
fectly  smooth  sides  might  have  been  mistaken  for 
ebony,  but  for  the  bewildering  rapidity  with  which 
they  spun  around,  and  for  th'e  gleaming  and  ghastly 
radiance  they  shot  forth,  as  the  rays  of  the  full  moon 
from  that  circular  rift  amid  the  clouds,  which  I  have 
.  already  described,  streamed  in  a  flood  of  golden  glory 
.along  the  black  walls,  and  far  away  down  into  the 
inmost  recesses  of  the  abyss. 

“At  hrst  I  was  too  much  confused  to  observe 
anything  accurately.  The  general  burst  of  terrific 
.grandeur  was  all  that  I  beheld.  When  I  recovered 
myself  a  little,  however,  my  gaze  fell  instinctively 
downward.  In  this  direction  I  was  able  to  obtain 
lan  unobstructed  view,  from  the  manner  in  which 
[the  smack  hung  on  the  inclined  surface  of  the 


206  A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 

iti 

pool.  She  was  quite  upon  an  even  keel  — that  is 
to  say,  her  deck  lay  in  a  plane  parallel  with  that 
of  the  water  —  but  this  latter  sloped  at  an  angle  of 
more  than  forty-five  degrees,  so  that  we  seemed  to 
be  lying  upon  our  beam-ends.  I  could  not  help  1 
observing,  nevertheless,  that  I  had  scarcely  more  j 
difiiculty  in  maintaining  my  hold  and  footing  in  this  i 
situation,  than  if  we  had  been  upon  a  dead  level; 
and  this,  I  suppose,  Avas  owing  to  the  speed  at  j 

which  we  revolved.  v 

The  rays  of  the  moon  seemed  to  search  the  very 

bottom  of  the  profound  gulf ;  but  still  I  could  make  f 
out  nothing  distinctly,  oh  account  of  a  thick  mist  in  .. 
which  everything  there  was  enveloped,  and  over  ; 
which  there  hung  a  magnificent  rainbow,  like  that 
narrow  and  tottering  bridge  which  Mussulmans  say 
is  the  only  pathway  between  Time  and  Eternity. 
This  mist,  or  spray,  was  no  doubt  occasioned  by  the  ;; 
clashing  of  the  great  walls  of  the  funnel,  as  they  all  . 
met  together  at  the  bottom  —  but  the  yell  that  went 
up  to  the  heavens  from  out  of  that  mist,  I  dare  not 

attempt  to  describe. 

Our  first  slide  into  the  abyss  itself,  from  the  belt 
of  foam  above,  had  carried  us  to  a  great  distance 
down  the  slope;  but  our  farther  descent  was  by  no 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 


207 


means  proportionate.  Bound  and  round  we  swept 
—  not  with  any  uniform  movement,  but  in  dizzying 
swings  and  jerks,  that  sent  us  sometimes  only  a  few 
hundred  yards  —  sometimes  nearly  the  complete  cir¬ 
cuit  of  the  whirl.  Our  progress  downward,  at  each 
revolution,  was  slow,  but  very  perceptible. 

Looking  about  me  upon  the  wide  waste  of  liquid 
ebony  on  which  we  were  thus  borne,  I  perceived  that 
our  boat  was  not  the  only  object  in  the  embrace  of  the 
whirl.  Both  above  and  below  us  were  visible  frag¬ 
ments  of  vessels,  large  masses  of  building  timber  and 
trunks  of  trees,  with  many  smaller  articles,  such  as 
pieces  of  house  furniture,  broken  boxes,  barrels,  and 
staves.  I  have  already  described  the  unnatural 
curiosity  which  had  taken  the  place  of  my  original 
terrors.  It  appeared  to  grow  upon  me  as  I  drew 
nearer  and  nearer  to  my  dreadful  doom.  I  now  began 
to  watch,  with  a  strange  interest,  the  numerous  things 
that  floated  in  our  company.  I  must  have  been 
delirious  —  for  I  even  sought  amusement  in  speculat- 
ing  upon  the  relative  velocities  of  their  several  de¬ 
scents  toward  the  foam  below.  ‘This  fir  tree,’  I 
found  myself  at  one  time  saying,  ‘will  certainly  be 
the  next  thing  that  takes  the  awful  plunge  and  disap¬ 
pears,’ —  and  then  I  was  disappointed  to  find  that 


208 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 


tlie  wreck  of  a  Diitcli  merchant  ship  overtook  it  s 
and  went  down  before.  At  length,  after  making  f 
several  guesses  of  this  nature,  and  being  deceived  in  | 
all  —  this  fact  —  the  fact  of  my  invariable  miscalcu-  | 
lation,  set  me  upon  a  train  of  reflection  that  made 
my  limbs  again  tremble,  and  my  heart  beat  heavily  ' 
once  more.  •  ] 

“  It  was  not  a  new  terror  that  thus  affected  me,  but 
the  dawn  of  a  more  exciting  hope.  This  hope  arose  ■ 
partly  from  memory,  and  partly  from  present  obser-  ^ 
vation.  I  called  to  mind  the  great  variety  of  buoyant  ] 
matter  that  strewed  the  coast  of  Lofoden,  having  been 
absorbed  and  then  thrown  forth  by  the  Moskoe-strom.  1 
By  far  the  greater  number  of  the  articles  were  shat-  ^ 
tered  in  the  most  extraordinary  way  —  so  chafed  and  ;; 
roughened  as  to  have  the  appearance  of  being  stuck  ' 
full  of  splinters  —  but  then  I  distinctly  recollected  ’ 
that  there  were  some  of  them  which  were  not  dis¬ 
figured  at  all.  Now  I  could  not  account  for  this  ! 
difference  except  by  supposing  that  the  roughened 
fragments  were  the  only  ones  which  had  been  com¬ 
pletely  absorbed  —  that  the  others  had  entered  the 
whirl  at  so  late  a  period  of  the  tide,  or,  from  some 
reason,  had  descended  so  slowly  after  entering,  that 
they  did  not  reach  the  bottom  before  the  turn  of  the 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM  209 

flood  came,  or  of  the  ebb,  as  the  case  might  be.  I 
conceived  it  possible,  in  either  instance,  that  they 
might  thus  be  whirled  up  again  to  the  level  of  the 
ocean,  without  undergoing  the  fate  of  those  which 
had  been  drawn  in  more  early  or  absorbed  more 
rapidly.  I  made,  also,  three  important  observations. 
The  first  was,  that  as  a  general  rule,  the  larger  the 
bodies  were,  the  more  rapid  their  descent ;  the  second, 
that,  between  two  masses  of  equal  extent,  the  one 
spherical,  and  the  other  of  any  other  shape,  the  supe¬ 
riority  in  speed  of  descent  was  with  the  sphere ;  the 
third,  that,  between  two  masses  of  equal  size,  the 
one  cylindrical,  and  the  other  of  any  other  shape, 
the  cylinder  was  absorbed  the  more  slowly.  Since  my 
I  escape,  I  have  had  several  conversations  on  this  sub¬ 
ject  with  an  old  schoolmaster  of  the  district ;  and  it 
was  from  him  that  I  learned  the  use  of  the  words 
‘^cylinder’  and  ^ sphere.^  He  explained  to  me  — 

I  although  I  have  forgotten  the  explanation  —  how 
what  I  observed  was,  in  fact,  the  natural  consequence 
of  the  forms  of  the  floating  fragments,  and  showed 
me  how  it  happened  that  a  cylinder,  swimming  in  a 
wortex,  offered  more  resistance  to  its  suction,  and  was 
drawn  in  with  greater  difficulty,  than  an  equally  bulky 
body,  of  any  form  whatever. 


F 


210  A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 

There  was  one  startling  circumstance  which  went 
a  great  way  in  enforcing  these  observations,  and 
rendering  me  anxious  to  turn  them  to  account,  and 
this  was  that,  at  every  revolution,  we  passed  some-  ,.j 
thing  like  a  barrel,  or  else  the  yard  or  the  mast  of  a 
vessel,  while  many  of  these  things,  which  had  been  on 
our  level  when  I  first  opened  my  eyes  upon  the  won-  i 
ders  of  the  whirlpool,  were  now  high  up  above  us, 

.  and  seemed  to  have  moved  but  little  from  their  origi¬ 
nal  station.  i  j  4.  I 

no  longer  hesitated  what  to  do.  I  resolved  to 

""i-  lash  myself  securely  to  the  water  cask  upon  which  I 
/  now  held,  to  cut  it  loose  from  the  counter,  and  to  | 
'"-  throw  myself  with  it  into  the  water.  I  attracted  my  : 
brother’s  attention  by  signs,  pointed  to  the  floating  j 
barrels  that  came  near  us,  and  did  everything  in  my  . 
power  to  make  him  understand  what  I  was  about  to  | 
do.  I  thought  at  length  that  he  comprehended  my  f 
(jesign  — but,  whether  this  was  the  case  or  not,  he  j 
shook  his  head  despairingly,  and  refused  to  move  from 
his  station  by  the  ring  bolt.  It  was  impossible  to  I: 
reach  him ;  the  emergency  admitted  of  no  delay ;  and  | 
so,  with  a  bitter  struggle,  I  resigned  him  to  his  fate, 
fastened  myself  to  the  cask  by  means  of  the  lashings  ; 
which  secured  it  to  the  counter,  and  precipitated  my- 


A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 


211 


self  with  it  into  the  sea,  without  another  moment’s 
hesitation. 

“The  result  was  precisely  what  I  had  hoped  it 
might  be.  As  it  is  myself  who  now  tell  you  this  tale 
—  as  you  see  that  I  did  escape  —  and  as  you  are  al¬ 
ready  in  possession  of  the  mode  in  which  this  escape 
wms  effected,  and  must  therefore  anticipate  all  that  I 
have  further  to  say  —  I  will  bring  my  story  quickly 
to  conclusion.  It  might  have  been  an  hour,  or  there¬ 
about,  after  my  quitting  the  smack,  when,  having  de¬ 
scended  to  a  vast  distance  beneath  me,  it  made  three 
or  four  wild  gyrations  in  rapid  succession,  and,  bear¬ 
ing  my  loved  brother  with  it,  plunged  headlong,  at 
once  and  forever,  into  the  chaos  of  foam  below.  The 
barrel  to  which  I  was  attached  sunk  very  little  farther 
than  half  the  distance  between  the  bottom  of  the  gulf 
and  the  spot  at  which  I  leaped  overboard,  before  a 
great  change  took  place  in  the  character  of  the  whirl¬ 
pool.  The  slope  of  the  sides  of  the  vast  funnel  be¬ 
came  momently  less  and  less  steep.  The  gyrations  of 
the  whirl  grew,  gradually,  less  and  less  violent.  By 
degrees,  the  froth  and  the  rainbow  disappeared,  and 
the  bottom  of  the  gulf  seemed  slowly  to  uprise.  The 
sky  was  clear,  the  winds  had  gone  down,  and  the  full 
moon  was  setting  radiantly  in  the  west,  when  I  found 


212  A  DESCENT  INTO  THE  MAELSTROM 

myself  on  the  surfaae  of  the  ocean,  in  full  view  of  the 
shores  of  Lofoden,  and  above  the  spot  where  the  pool 
of  the  Moskoe-strori  had  been.  It  was  the  hour  of  the 
slack,  but  the  sea  still  heaved  in  mountainous  waves 
from  the  effects  of  the  hurricane.  I  was  borne  vio¬ 
lently  into  the  chainel  of  the  Strom,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  was  hurried' down  the  coast  into  the  ^grounds’ 
of  the  fishermen.  A  boat  picked  me  up  —  exhausted 
from  fatigue  —  and  (now  that  the  danger  was  removed) 
speechless  from  the  memory  of  its  horror.  Those  who 
drew  me  on  board  were  my  old  mates  and  daily  com¬ 
panions,  but  they  knew  me  no  more  than  they  would 
have  known  a  traveller  from  the  spirit-land.  My  hair, 
which  had  been  raven-black  the  day  before,  was  as 
white  as  you  see  it  now.  They  say  too  that  the  whole 
expression  of  my  countenance  had  changed.  I  told 
them  my  story  —  they  did  not  believe  it.  I  now  tell 
it  to  you  —  and  I  can  scarcely  expect  you  to  put 
more  faith  in  it  than  did  the  merry  fishermen  of 
Lofoden.’’ 


THE  GOLD-BUG°* 

What  ho  !  what  ho  1  this  fellow  is  dancing  mad  t 
He  hath  been  bitten  by  the  Tarantula. 

All  in  the  Wrong. 

Many  years  ago,  I  contracted  an  intimacy  with  a 
Mr.  William  Legrand.  He  was  of  an  ancient  Hugue¬ 
not  family,  and  had  once  been  wealthy ;  but  a  series 
of  misfortunes  had  reduced  him  to  want.  To  avoid 
the  mortification  consequent  upon  his  disasters,  he 
left  New  Orleans,  the  city  of  his  forefathers,  and  took 
up  his  residence  at  Sullivan’s  Island,  near  Charleston, 
South  Carolina. 

^  This  island  is  a  very  singular  one.  It  consists  of 
little  else  than  the  sea  sand,  and  is  about  three  miles 
long.  Its  breadth  at  no  point  exceeds  a  quarter  of  a 
mile.  It  is  separated  from  the  main-land  by  a  scarcely 
perceptible  creek,  oozing  its  way  through  a  wilderness 
of  reeds  and  slime,  a  favorite  resort  of  the  marsh-hen. 
The  vegetation,  as  might  be  supposed,  is  scant,  or  at 
least  dwarfish.  No  trees  of  any  magnitude  are  to  be 

*  By  permission  of  H.  S.  Stone  &  Co. 

213 


214 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


seen.  Near  the  western  extremity,  where  Fort  Mouh  - 
trie  stands,  and  where  are  some  miserable  frame  build¬ 
ings,  tenanted  during  summer  by  the  fugitives  from 
Charleston  dust  and  fever,  may  be  found,  indeed,  the 
bristly  palmetto ;  but  the  whole  island,  with  the  ex¬ 
ception  of  this  western  point,  and  a  line  of  hard  white 
beach  on  the  seacoast,  is  covered  with  a  dense  under¬ 
growth  of  the  sweet  myrtle,  so  much  prized  by  the 
horticulturists  of  England.  The  shrub  here  often 
attains  the  height  of  fifteen  or  twenty  feet,  and  forms 
an  almost  impenetrable  coppice,  burdening  the  air 
with  its  fragrance. 

In  the  utmost  recesses  of  this  coppice,  not  far  from 
the  eastern  or  more  remote  end  of  the  island,  Legrand 
had  built  himself  a  small  hut,  which  he  occupied 
when  I  first,  by  mere  accident,  made  his  acquaintance. 
This  soon  ripened  into  friendship — for  there  was 
much  in  the  recluse  to  excite  interest  and  esteem.  I 
found  him  well  educated,  with  unusual  powers  of 
mind,  but  infected  with  misanthropy,  and  subject  to 
perverse  moods  of  alternate  enthusiasm  and  melan¬ 
choly.  He  had  with  him  many  books,  but  rarely 
employed  them.  His  chief  amusements  were  gun¬ 
ning  and  fishing,  or  sauntering  along  the  beach  and 
through  the  myrtles  in  quest  of  shells  or  entomologi- 


THE  GOLD- BUG 


215 


r 


cal  specimens ;  — his  collection  of  the  latter  might 
have  been  envied  by  a  Swammerdamm.  In  these 
excursions  he  was  usually  accompanied  by  an  old 
negro,  called  Jupiter,  who  had  been  manumitted  be¬ 
fore  the  reverses  of  the  family,  but  who  could  be  in¬ 
duced,  neither  by  threats  nor  by  promises,  to  abandon 
what  he  considered  his  right  of  attendance  upon  the 
footsteps  of  his  young  Massa  Will.’^  It  is  not  im¬ 
probable  that  the  relatives  of  Legrand,  conceiving  him 
to  be  somewhat  unsettled  in  intellect,  had  contrived  to 
instil  this  obstinacy  into  J upiter,  with  a  view  to  the 
supervision  and  guardianship  of  the  wanderer. 

The  winters  in  the  latitude  of  Sullivan’s  Island  are 
seldom  very  severe,  and  in  the  fall  of  the  year  it  is  a 
rare  event  indeed  when  a  fire  is  considered  necessary. 
About  the  middle  of  October,  18  — ,  there  occurred, 
however,  a  day  of  remarkable  chilliness.  Just  before 
sunset  I  scrambled  my  way  through  the  evergreens  to 
the  hut  of  my  friend,  whom  I  had  not  visited  for 
several  weeks  —  my  residence  being  at  that  time  in 
Charleston,  a  distance  of  nine  miles  from  the  island,  ' 
while  the  facilities  of  passage  and  repassage  were 
very  far  behind  those  of  the  present  day.  Upon 
reaching  the  hut  I  rapped,  as  was  my  custom,  and, 
getting  no  reply,  sought  for  the  key  where  I  knew  it 


216 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


was  secreted,  unlocked  the  door  and  went  in.  A  fine 
fire  was  blazing  upon  the  hearth.  It  was  a  novelty, 
and  by  no  means  an  ungrateful  one.  I  threw  off  an 
overcoat,  took  an  armchair  by  the  crackling  logs,  and 
awaited  patiently  the  arrival  of  my  hosts. 

Soon  after  dark  they  arrived,  and  gave  me  a  most 
cordial  welcome.  Jupiter,  grinning  from  ear  to  ear, 
bustled  about  to  prepare  some  marsh-hens  for  supper. 
Legrand  was  in  one  of  his  fits  —  how  else  shall  I  term 
them?  —  of  enthusiasm.  He  had  found  an  unknown 
bivalve,  forming  a  new  genus,  and,  more  than  this,  he 
had  hunted  down  and  secured,  with  Jupiter’s  assist¬ 
ance,  a  scarabceus  which  he  believed  to  be  totally  new, 
but  in  respect  to  which  he  wished  to  have  my  opinion 
on  the  morrow. 

‘^And  why  not  to-night?”  I  asked,  rubbing  my 
hands  over  the  blaze,  and  wishing  the  whole  tribe  of 
scarabcei  at  the  devil. 

Ah,  if  I  had  only  known  you  were  here !  ”  said 
Legrand,  “  but  it’s  so  long  since  I  saw  you ;  and  how 
could  I  foresee  that  you  would  pay  me  a  visit  this 
very  night  of  all  others  ?  As  I  was  coming  home  I 
met  Lieutenant  G - ,  from  the  fort,  and,  very  fool¬ 

ishly,  I  lent  him  the  bug ;  so  it  will  be  impossible  for 
you  to  see  it  until  the  morning.  Stay  here  to-night, 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


217 


and  1  will  send  Jup  down  for  it  at  sunrise.  It  is  the 
loveliest  thing  in  creation ! 

“  What  ?  —  sunrise  ?  ” 

^‘Nonsense!  no!  — the  bug.  It  is  of  a  brilliant 

gold  color  about  the  size  of  a  large  hickory-nut _ 

with  two  jet-black  spots  near  one  extremity  of  the 
back,  and  another,  somewhat  longer,  at  the  other 
The  antennm  are  — 

'^  Dey  ain’t  no  tin  in  him,  Massa  Will,  I  keep  a 
tellin  on  you,  here  interrupted  J upiter  j  de  bug  is 
a  goole-bug,  solid,  ebery  bit  of  him,  inside  and  all,  sep 
him  wing  neber  feel  half  so  hebby  a  bug  in  my 
life.” 

^‘Well,  suppose  it  is,  Jup,”  replied  Legrand,  some¬ 
what  more  earnestly,  it  seemed  to  me,  than  the  case 
demanded,  is  that  any  reason  for  your  letting  the 

biids  burn?  The  color”  —  here  he  turned  to  me _ 

^^is  realj.y  almost  enough  to  warrant  Jupiter’s  idea. 
You  ne\'er  saw  a  more  brilliant  metallic  lustre  than 
the  scales  emit  —  but  of  this  you  cannot  judge  till  to¬ 
morrow.  In  the  meantime  I  can  give  you  some  idea 
of  the  shape.”  Saying  this,  he  seated  himself  at  a 
small  table,  on  which  were  a  pen  and  ink,  but  no 

paper.  He  looked  for  some  in  a  drawer,  but  found 
none. 


218 


THE  GOLD-BUa 


« Never  mind/'  said  lie  at  length,  <Hliis  will  an-  i 
swer ;  ”  and  he  drew  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  a  | 
scrap  of  what  I  took  to  be  very  dirty  foolscap,  and  I 
made  upon  it  a -rough  drawing  with  the  pen.  While 
he  did  this,  I  retained  my  seat  by  the  fire,  for  I 
was  still  chilly.  When  the  design  was  complete,  he 
handed  it  to  me  without  rising.  As  I  received  it,  a 
low  growl  was  heard,  succeeded  by  a  scratching  at  the 
door.  Jupiter  opened  it,  and  a  large  Newfoundland, 
belonging  to  hegrand,  rushed  in,  leaped  upon  my 
shoulders,  and  loaded  me  with  caresses  j  for  I  had 
shown  him  much  attention  during  previous  visits. 
When  his  gambols  were  over,  I  looked  at  the  paper, 
and,  to  speak  the  truth,  found  myself  not  a  little 
puzzled  at  what  my  friend  had  depicted. 

Well !  ”  I  said,  after  contemplating  it  for  some 
ixiinutes,  this  is  a  strange  scdvcibcBus^  I  must  confess  j  j 
new  to  me  t  never  saw  anything  like  it  before  unless 
it  was  a  skull,  or  a  death’s  head,  which  it  more  nearly 
resembles  than  anything  else  that  has  come  under  lYiy 
observation.” 

“  A  death’s-head  !  ”  echoed  Legrand  — 

yes  — well,  it  has  something  of  that  appearance 
upon  paper,  no  doubt.  The  two  upper  black  spots 
look  like  eyes,  eh?  and  the  longer  one  at  the  bottom 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


219 


like  a  mouth  —  and  then  the  shape  of  the  whole  is 
oval.’^ 

Perhaps  so,”  said  I;  ‘^but,  Legrand,  I  fear  you 
are  no  artist.  I  must  wait  until  I  see  the  beetle  itself, 
if  I  am  to  form  any  idea  of  its  personal  appearance.” 

^‘Well,  I  don’t  know,”  said  he,  a  little  nettled,  “I 
draw  tolerably  —  should  do  it  at  least  —  have  had 
good  masters,  and  flatter  myself  that  I  am  not  quite 
a  blockhead.” 

^‘But,  my  dear  fellow,  you  are  joking  then,”  said  I; 
this  is  a  very  passable  skull,  —  indeed,  I  may  say 
that  it  is  a  very  excellent  skull,  according  to  the  vul¬ 
gar  notions  about  such  specimens  of  physiology  — 
and  your  scarabceus  must  be  the  queerest  scarabceus 
in  the  world  if  it  resembles  it.  Why,  we  may  get  up 
a  very  thrilling  bit  of  superstition  upon  this  hint.  I 
presume  you  will  call  the  bug  scarabceus  caput  liomi- 
nis,  or  something  of  that  kind  —  there  are  many  simi¬ 
lar  titles  in  the  Natural  Histories.  But  where  are  the 
antennae  you  spoke  of  ?  ” 

“The  antennae  !”  said  Legrand,  who  seemed  to  be 
getting  unaccountably  warm  upon  the  subject;  “I 
am  sure  you  must  see  the  antennce.  I  made  them  as 
distinct  as  they  are  in  the  original  insect,  and  I  pre 
sume  that  is  sufiicient.” 


220 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


^^Well,  well/’  I  said,  perhaps  you  have  —  still  I 
don’t  see  them;”  and  I  handed  him  the  paper  with¬ 
out  additional  remark,  not  wishing  to  rufde  his 
temper ;  but  I  was  much  surprised  at  the  turn  affairs 
had  taken;  his  ill  humor  puzzled  me  —  and  as  for 
the  drawing  of  the  beetle,  there  were  positively  no 
antenyim  visible,  and  the  whole  did  bear  a  very  close 
resemblance  to  the  ordinary  cuts  of  a  death’s-head. 

He  received  the  paper  very  peevishly,  and  was 
about  to  crumple  it,  apparently  to  throw  it  in  the  fire, 
when  a  casual  glance  at  the  design  seemed  suddenly 
to  rivet  his  attention.  In  an  instant  his  face  grew 
violently  red  —  in  another  as  excessively  pale.  For 
some  minutes  he  continued  to  scrutinize  the  drawing 
minutely  where  he  sat.  At  length  he  arose,  took  a 
candle  from  the  table,  and  proceeded  to  seat  himself 
upon  a  sea-chest  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room. 
Here  again  he  made  an  anxious  examination  of  the 
paper ;  turning  it  in  all  directions.  He  said  nothing, 
however,  and  his  conduct  greatly  astonished  me ;  yet 
I  thought  it  prudent  not  to  exacerbate  the  growing 
moodiness  of  his  temper  by  any  comment.  Presentl}’' 
he  .took  from  his  coat  pocket  a  wallet,  placed  the 
paper  carefully  in  it,  and  deposited  both  in  a  writ¬ 
ing-desk,  which  he  locked.  He  now  grew  more 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


221 


composed  in  his  demeanor;  but  his  original  air  of 
enthusiasm  had  quite  disappeared.  Yet  he  seemed 
not  so  much  sulky  as  abstracted.  As  the  evening 
wore  away  he  became  more  and  more  absorbed  in 
revery,  from  which  no  sallies  of  mine  could  arouse 
.  him.  It  had  been  my  intention  to  pass  the  night  at 
I  the  hut,  as  I  had  frequently  done  before,  but,  seeing 
my  host  in  this  mood,  I  deemed  it  proper  to  take 
^  leave.  He  did  not  press  me  to  remain,  but,  as  I  de- 

;  parted,  he  shook  my  hand  with  even  more  than  his 
'  usual  cordiality. 

It  was  about  a  month  after  this  (and  during  the 
interval  I  had  seen  nothing  of  Legrand)  when  I  re¬ 
ceived  a  visit,  at  Charleston,  from  his  man,  Jupiter. 
I  had  never  seen  the  good  old  negro  look  so  dispirited, 

and  I  feared  that  some  serious  disaster  had  befallen 
my  friend. 

''Yell,  Jup,”  said  I,  ^^what  is  the  matter  now?  — 
how  is  your  master  ? 

>  to  speak  de  troof,  massa,  him  not  so  berry 
well  as  mought  be.” 

"  Not  well !  I  am  truly  sorry  to  hear  it.  What 
does  he  complain  of  ?  ” 

Bar  !  dat’s  it !  —  him  neber  plain  of  notin  —  but 
him  berry  sick  for  all  dat.” 


222 


THE  GOLD- BUG 


Very  sick,  Jupiter !  — why  didn’t  you  say  so  at  | 

once  ?  Is  lie  confined  to  bed  ?  ”  jj 

‘‘No,  dat  he  aint! — he  aint  find  nowhar  —  dat’s  j 
just  whar  de  shoe  pinch  —  my  mind  is  got  to  be  berry  i 

hebby  bout  poor  Massa  Will.” 

“Jupiter,  I  should  like  to  understand  what  it  is 
you  are  talking  about.  You  say  your  master  is  sick. 

Hasn’t  he  told  you  what  ails  him  ?  ” 

“  Why,  massa,  taint  worf  while  for  to  git  mad  bout 
de  matter— Massa  Will  say  noffin  at  all  aint  de 
matter  wid  him  —  but  den  what  make  him  go  about  ^ 
looking  dis  here  way,  wid  he  head  down  and  he  sol-  | 
diers  up,  and  as  white  as  a  gose  ?  And  then  he  keep  | 
a  syphon  all  de  time  —  ”  ! 

“  Keeps  a  what,  J upiter  ?  ”  , 

“Keeps  a  syphon  wid  de  figgurs  on  de  slate  —  , 

queerest  figgurs  I  ebber  did  see.  Ise  gittin  to  be  , 
skeered,  I  tell  you.  Hab  for  to  keep  mighty  tight  eye 
pon  him  noovers.  Todder  day  he  gib  me  slip  fore  de 
sun  up  and  was  gone  de  whole  ob  de  blessed  day.  I 

had  a  big  stick  ready  cut  for  to  gib  him  d - d  good 

beating  when  he  did  come  —  but  Ise  sich  a  fool  dat  I 
hadn’t  de  heart  arter  all  —  he  look  so  berry  poorly.” 

«  Eh  ? _ what  ?  —  ah  yes !  —  upon  the  whole  I  think 

you  had  better  not  be  too  severe  with  the  poor  fellow 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


223 


—  don’t  flog  him,  Jupiter  —  he  can’t  very  well  stand 
it  —  but  can  you  form  no  idea  of  what  has  occasioned 
this  illness,  or  rather  this  change  of  conduct?  Has 
anything  unpleasant  happened  since  I  saw  you  ?  ” 

“No,  massa,  dey  aint  bin  nofiin  onpleasant  since' 
den  —  ’twas  fore  den  I’m  feared  —  ’twas  de  berry  day 
you  was  dare.” 

“  How  ?  what  do  you  mean  ?  ” 

“  Why,  massa,  I  mean  de  bug  —  dare  now.” 

“  The  what  ?  ” 

“De  bug  —  I’m  berry  sartain  dat  Massa  Will  bin 
bit  somewhere  bout  de  head  by  dat  gool e-bug.” 

“And  what  cause  have  you,  Jupiter,  for  such  a 
supposition  ?  ” 

“Claws  enuff,  massa,  and  mouff  too.  I  nebber  did 

see  sich  a  d - d  bug  —  he  kick  and  he  bite  ebery  ting 

what  cum  near  him.  Massa  Will  cotch  him  fuss,  but 
had  for  to  let  him  go  gin  mighty  quick,  I  tell  you  — 
den  was  de  time  he  must  ha  got  de  bite.  I  didn’t 
like  de  look  ob  de  bug  mouff,  myself,  no  how,  so  I 
wouldn’t  take  hold  ob  him  wid  my  finger,  but  I  cotch 
him  wid  a  piece  ob  paper  dat  I  found.  I  rap  him  up 
in  de  paper  and  stuff  piece  ob  it  in  he  mouff  —  dat 
was  de  way.” 

“And  you  think,  then,  that  your  master  was  really 


224 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


bitten  by  the  beetle,  and  that  the  bite  made  him 
sick  ? 

don’t  tink  noffin  about  it  —  I  nose  it.  What 
make  him  dream  bout  de  goole  so  much,  if  taint  cause 
he  bit  by  de  goole-bug  ?  Ise  heerd  bout  dem  goole- 
bugs  fore  dis.” 

“  But  how  do  you  know  he  dreams  about  gold  ?  ” 
How  I  know  ?  why,  cause  he  talk  about  it  in  he 
sleep  —  dat’s  how  I  nose.” 

“Well,  Jup,  perhaps  you  are  right;  but  to  what  for¬ 
tunate  circumstance  am  I  to  attribute  the  honor  of  a 
visit  from  you  to-day  ?  ” 

“  What  de  matter,  massa  ?  ” 

“  Did  you  bring  any  message  from  Mr.  Le- 
grand  ?  ” 

“No,  massa,  I  bring  dis  here  pissel;”  and  here 
Jupiter  handed  me  a  note  which  ran  thus  ; 

“  My  dear - :  Why  have  I  not  seen  you  for  so  long  a 

time  ?  I  hope  you  have  not  been  so  foolish  as  to  take  offence 
at  any  little  brusquerie  of  mine  ;  but  no,  that  is  improbable. 

“  Since  I  saw  you  I  have  had  great  cause  for  anxiety.  I 
have  something  to  tell  you,  yet  scarcely  know  how  to  tell  it,  or 
whether  I  should  tell  it  at  all. 

“I  have  hot  been  quite  well  for  some  days  past,  and  poor  old 
Jup  annoys  me,  almost  beyond  endurance,  by  his  well-meant 
attentions.  Would  you  believe  it?  —  he  had  prepared  a  huge 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


225 


stick,  the  other  day,  with  which  to  chastise  me  for  giving  him 
the  slip,  and  spending  the  day,  solus,  among  the  hills  on  the 
main-land.  I  verily  believe  that  my  ill  looks  alone  saved  me  a 
flogging. 

“  I  have  made  no  addition  to  my  cabinet  since  we  met. 

“If  you  can,  in  any  way,  make  it  convenient,  come  over 
with  Jupiter.  Do  come.  I  wish  to  see  you  to-night,  upon 
business  of  importance.  I  assure  you  that  it  is  of  the  highest 
importance. 

“  Ever  yours, 

“William  Legrand.” 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  this  note  which 
'gave  me  great  uneasiness.  Its  whole  style  differed 
materially  from  that  of  Legrand.  What  could  he  be 
dreaming  of?  What  new  crotchet  possessed  his 
excitable  brain  ?  What  business  of  the  highest 
importance  ”  could  he  possibly  have  to  transact  ? 
J upiter’s  account  of  him  boded  no  good.  I  dreaded 
lest  the  continued  pressure  of  misfortune  had,  at 
length,  fairly  unsettled  the  reason  of  my  friend. 
Without  a  moment’s  hesitation,'  therefore,  I  prepared 
to  accompany  the  negro. 

Upon  reaching  the  wharf,  I  noticed  a  scythe  and 
three  spades,  all  apparently  new,  lying  in  the  bottom 
of  the  boat  in  which  we  were  to  embark. 

What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this,  Jup  ?  ”  I  inquired. 


226 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


“  Him  syfe,  massa,  and  spade.’’ 

Very  true ;  but  what  are  they  doing  here  ?  ” 

^^Hiin  de  syfe  and  de  spade  what  Massa  Will  sis 
pon  my  buying  for  him  in  de  town,  and  de  debbil’s 
own  lot  of  money  I  had  to  gib  for  em.” 

“  But  what,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  mysterious, 
is  your  ^  Massa  W^ill  ’  going  to  do  with  scythes  and 
spades  ?  ’•’ 

“  Dat’s  more  dan  I  know,  and  debbil  take  me  if  I 
don’t  blieve  ’tis  more  dan  he  know,  too.  But  it’s  all 
cum  ob  de  bug.” 

Finding  that  no  satisfaction  was  to  be  obtained  of 
Jupiter,  whose  whole  intellect  seemed  to  be  absorbed 
by  de  bug,”  I  now  stepped  into  the  boat  and  made 
sail.  With  a  fair  and  strong  breeze  we  soon  ran  into 
the  little  cove  to  the  northward  of  Fort  Moultrie,  and 
a  walk  of  some  two  miles  brought  us  to  the  hut.  It 
was  about  three  in  the  afternoon  when  we  arrived. 
Legrand  had  been  awaiting  us  in  eager  expectation. 
He  grasped  my  hand  with  a  nervous  empressement, 
which  alarmed  me  and  strengthened  the  suspicions 
already  entertained.  His  countenance  was  pale  even 
to  ghastliness,  and  his  deep-set  eyes  glared  with 
unnatural  lustre.  After  some  inquiries  respecting 
his  health,  I  asked  him,  not  knowing  what  better  to 


THE  GOLD-BUG  227 

saj,  if  he  had  yet  obtained  the  scarabceus  from  Lieu¬ 
tenant  G - . 

“Oh,  yes,”  he  replied,  coloring  violently,  “I  got  it 
from  him  the  next  morning.  Nothing  would  tempt 
me  to  part  with  that  scarabceus.  •  Do  you  know  that 
J upiter  is  quite  right  about  it  ?  ” 

“  In  what  way  ?  ”  I  asked,  with  a  sad  foreboding  at 
heart. 

“  In  supposing  it  to  be  a  bug  of  real  goW^  He  said 
this  with  an  air  of  profound  seriousness,  and  I  felt 
inexpressibly  shocked. 

“  This  bug  is  to  make  my  fortune,”  he  continued, 
with  a  triumphant  smile,  “  to  reinstate  me  in  my 
family  possessions.  Is  it  any  wonder,  then,  that  I 
prize  it?  Since  Fortune  has  thought  fit  to  bestow  it 
upon  me,  I  have  only  to  use  it  properly  and  I  shall 
i  arrive  at  the  gold  of  which  it  is  the  index.  Jupiter, 
bring  me  that  scarabceus  !  ” 

“What!  de  bug,  massa?  I’d  rudder  not  go  fer 
trubble  dat  bug  —  you  mus  git  him  for  your  own  self.” 
Hereupon  Legrand  arose,  with  a  grave  and  stately  air, 
and  brought  me  the  beetle  from  a  glass  case  in  which 
it  was  enclosed.  It  was  a  beautiful  scarabceus,  and, 
at  that  time,  unknown  to  naturalists  —  of  course  a 
great  prize  in  a  scientific  point  of  view.  There  were 


228 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


two  round,  black  spots  near  one  extremity  of  the  back, 
and  a  long  one  near  the  other.  The  scales  were 
exceedingly  hard  and  glossy,  with  all  the  appearance 
of  burnished  gold.  The  weight  of  the  insect  was  very 
remarkable,  and,  taking  all  things  into  consideration, 

I  could  hardly  blame  Jupiter  for  his  opinion  respect¬ 
ing  it ;  but  what  to  make  of  Legrand’s  agreement  with 
that  opinion,  I  could  not,  for  the  life  of  me,  tell. 

I  sent  for  you,’^  he  said,  in  a  grandiloquent  tone, 
when  I  had  completed  my  examination  of  the  beetle, 
sent  for  you  that  I  might  have  your  counsel  and 
assistance  in  furthering  the  views  of  Fate  and  of  the 

•  . 

‘‘  My  dear  Legrand,”  I  cried,  interrupting  him, 
you  are  certainly  unwell,  and  had  better  use  some 
little  precautions.  You  shall  go  to  bed,  and  I  will 
remain  with  you  a  few  days,  until  you  get  over  this. 

You  are  feverish  and  —  ’’ 

'  ‘^^Feel  my  pulse,”  said  he. 

'  I  felt  it,  and,  to  say  the  truth,  found  not  the  slight¬ 
est  indication  of  fever. 

‘‘  But  you  may  be  ill,  and  yet  have  no  fever.  Allow 
me  this  once  to  prescribe’ for  you.  In  the  first  place, 

go  to  bed.  In  the  next  —  ” 

« You  are  mistaken,”  he  interposed,  “  I  am  as  well 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


229 


as  I  can  expect  to  be  under  the  excitement  which  I 
suffer.  If  you  really  wish  me  well,  you  will  relieve 
this  excitement.’’ 

“  And  how  is  this  to  be  done  ?  ” 

^^Very  easily.  Jupiter  and  myself  are  going  upon 
an  expedition  into  the  hills,  upon  the  main-land,  and, 

I  in  this  expedition,  we  shall  need  the  aid  of  some 
person  in  whom  we  can  confide.  You  are  the  only 
,  one  we  can  trust.  Whether  we  succeed  or  fail,  the 
excitement  which  you  now  perceive  in  me  will  be 
equally  allayed.” 

am  anxious  to  oblige  you  in  any  way,”  I  re¬ 
plied;  ^‘but  do  you  mean  to  say  that  this  infernal 
beetle  has  any  connection  with  your  expedition  into 
the  hills  ?  ” 

‘‘  It  has.” 

Then,  Legrand,  I  can  become  a  party  to  no  such 
absurd  proceeding.” 

I  am  sorry  —  very  sorry  —  for  we  shall  have  to 
try  it  by  ourselves.” 

Try  it  by  yourselves !  The  man  is  surely  mad ! 
—  but  stay —  how  long  do  you  propose  to  be  absent?” 

“  Probably  all  night.  We"  shall  start  immediately) 
and  be  back,  at  all  events,  by  sunrise.” 

And  will  you  promise  me,  upon  your  honor,  that 


230 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


wheii  this  freak  of  yours  is  over,  and  the  bug  business 
(good  God  ! )  settled  to  your  satisfaction,  you  "vill  then 
return  home  and  follow  my  advice  implicitly,  as  that 
of  your  physician  ?  ” 

‘‘Yes;  I  promise;  and  now  let  us  be  olf,  for  we 
have  no  time  to  lose.” 

With  a  heavy  heart  I  accompanied  my  friend.  We 
started  about  four  o’clock — Legrand,  Jupiter,  the 
dog,  and  myself.  Jupiter  had  with  him  tdo,  scythe 
and  spades — the  whole  of  which  he  insisted  upon 
carrying,  more  through  fear,  it  seemed  to  me,  of 
trusting  either  of  the  implements  within  reach  of  his 
master,  than  from  any  excess  of  industry  or  complai¬ 
sance.  His  demeanor  was  dogged  in  the  extreme, 

and  “dat  d - d  bug”  were  the  sole  words  which 

escaped  his  lips  during  the  journey.  For  my  own 
part,  I  had  charge  of  a  couple  of  dark  lanterns,  while 
Legrand  contented  himself  with  the  scardbceus,  which 
he  carried  attached  to  the  end  of  a  bit  of  whip-cord ; 
twirling  it  to  and  fro,  with  the  air  of  a  conjurer,  as  he 
went.  When  I  observed  this  last,  plain  evidence  of 
my  friend’s  aberration  of  mind,  I  could  scarcely 
refrain  from  tears.  I  thought  it  best,  however,  to 
humor  his  fancy,  at  least  for  the  present,  or  until  I 
could  adopt  some  more  energetic  measures  with  a 


THE  GOLD-BUG  231 

chance  of  success.  In  the  meantime  I  endeavored, 
but  all  in  vain,  to  sound  him  in  regard  to  the  object 
of  the  expedition.  Having  succeeded  in  inducing  me 
to  accompany  him,  he  seemed  unwilling  to  hold  con¬ 
versation  upon  any  topic  of  minor  importance,  and 
to  all  my  questions  vouchsafed  no  other  reply  than 
We  shall  see  ! 

We  crossed  the  creek  at  the  head  of  the  island  by 
means  of  a  skiff,  and,  ascending  the  high  grounds  on 
the  shore  of  the  mainland,  proceeded  in  a  north¬ 
westerly  direction,  through  a  tract  of  country  exces¬ 
sively  wild  and  desolate,  where  no  trace  of  a  human 
footstep  was  to  be  seen.  Legrand  led  the  way  with 
decision ;  pausing  only  for  an  instant,  here  and  there, 
to  consult  what  appeared  to  be  certain  landmarks  of 
his  own  contrivance  upon  a  former  occasion. 

In  this  manner  we  journeyed  for  about  two  hours, 
and  the  sun  was  just  setting  when  we  entered  a  region 
infinitely  more  dreary  than  any  yet  seen.  It  was  a 
species  of  table-land,  near  the  summit  of  an  almost 
inaccessible  hill,  densely  wooded  from  base  to  pin¬ 
nacle,  and  interspersed  with  huge  crags  that  appeared 
to  lie  loosely  upon  the  soil,  and  in  many  cases  were 
prevented  from  precipitating  themselves  into  the 
valleys  below  merely  by  the  support  of  the  trees 


232 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


against  which  they  reclined.  Deep  ravines,  in  vari¬ 
ous  directions,  gave  an  air  of  still  sterner  solemnity 
to  the  scene. 

The  natural  platform  to  which  we  had  clambered 
was  thickly  overgrown  with  brambles,  through  which 
we  soon  discovered  that  it  would  have  been  impossi¬ 
ble  to  force  our  way  but  for  the  scythe ;  and  J upiter, 
by  direction  of  his  master,  proceeded  to  clear  for  us 
a  path  to  the  foot  of  an  enormously  tall  tulip  tree, 
which  stood,  with  some  eight  or  ten  oaks,  upon  the 
level,  and  far  surpassed  them  all,  and  all  other  trees 
which  I  had  then  ever  seen,  in  the  beauty  of  its  foli¬ 
age  and  form,  in  the  wide  spread  of  its  branches,  and 
in  the  general  majesty  of  its  appearance.  When  we 
reached  this  tree,  Legrand  turned  to  Jupiter,  and 
asked  him  if  he  thought  he  could  climb  it.  The  old 
man  seemed  a  little  staggered  by  the  question,  and 
for  some  moments  made  no  reply.  At  length  he 
approached  the  huge  trunk,  walked  slowly  around  it^ 
and  examined  it  with  minute  attention.  When  he 
had  completed  his  scrutiny,  he  merely  said : 

‘Wes,  massa,  Jup  climb  any  tree  he  ebber  see  in 
he  life.” 

“  Then  up  with  you  as  soon  as  possible,  for  it  will 
soon  be  too  dark  to  see  what  we  are  about.” 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


233 


'^How  far  mus  go  up,  massa  ? ''  inquired  Jupiter. 

Get  up  the  main  trunk  first,  and  then  I  will  tell 

you  which  way  to  go  — and  here  — stop!  take  this 
beetle  with  you.^’ 

“  De  bug,  Massa  Will !  —  de  goole-bug !  cried  the 
!  negro,  drawing  back  in  dismay  -  -  what  for  mus  tote 
de  bug  way  up  de  tree  ?  —  d— n  if  I  do ! 

^  If  you  are  afraid,  J up,  a  great  big  negro  like  you 
^  to  take  hold  of  a  harmless  little  dead  beetle,  why' 
you  can  carry  it  up  by  this  string  —  but,  if  you  do  not 
take  It  up  with  you  in  some  way,  I  shall  be  under  the 
necessity  of  breaking  your  head  with  this  shovel.^^ 

'  ''What  de  matter  now,  massa?''  said  Jup,  evi¬ 
dently  shamed  into  compliance;  "always  want  fur  to 
raise  fuss  wid  old  nigger.  Was  only  funnin  anyhow. 
Me  feered  de  bug !  what  I  keer  for  de  bug  ?  "  Here  ' 
he  took  cautiously  hold  of  the  extreme  end  of  the 
string,  and,  maintaining  the  insect  as  far  from  his 
person  as  circumstances  would  permit,  prepared  to 
ascend  the  tree. 

In  youth,  the  tulip  tree,  or  Liriodendron  Tulipifera, 
the  most  magnificent  of  American  foresters',  has  a 
trunk  peculiarly  smooth,  and  often  rises  to  a  great 
height  without  lateral  branches ;  but,  in  its  riper  age 
■the  bark  becomes  gnarled  and  uneven,  while  many' 


234 


THE  0 OLD-BUG 


short  limbs  make  their  appearance  on  the  stem. 
Thus  the  difficulty  of  ascension,  in  the  present  case, 
lay  more  in  semblance  than  in  reality.  Embracing 
the  huge  cylinder,  as  closely  as  possible,  with  his 
arms  and  knees,  seizing  with  his  hands  some  pro¬ 
jections,  and  resting  his  naked  toes  upon  others, 
Jupiter,  after  one  or  two  narrow  escapes  from  falling, 
at  length  wriggled  himself  into  the  first  great  fork, 
and  seemed  to  consider  the  whole  business  as  virtu¬ 
ally  accomplished.  The  risk  of  the  achievement 
was,  in  fact,  now  over,  although  the  climber  was  some 
sixty  or  seventy  feet  from  the  ground. 

Which  way  mus  go  now,  Massa  Will  ?  he 

asked. , 

“  Keep  up  the  largest  branch,  —  the  one  on  this 
side,’’  said  Legrand.  The  negro  obeyed  him  promptly, 
and  apparently  with  but  little  trouble,  ascending 
higher  and  higher,  until  no  glimpse  of  his  squat  figure 
could  be  obtained  through  the  dense  foliage  which  en¬ 
veloped  it.  Presently  his  voice  was  heard  in  a  sort  of 
halloo. 

How  much  fudder  is  got  for  go  ?  ” 

‘‘  How  high  up  are  you  ?  ”  asked  Legrand. 

“Ebber  so  fur,”  replied  the  negro;  “  can  see  de  sky 
fru  de  top  ob  de  tree.” 


I 


THE  GOLD-BUQ 


235 


Never  mind  the  sky,  but  attend  to  what  I  say. 
Look  down  the  trunk  and  count  the  limbs  below  you 
on  this  side.  How  many  limbs  have  you  passed  ? 

“  Ond*,  two,  tree,  four,  fibe  —  I  done  pass  fibe  big 
limb,  massa,  pon  dis  side.’^ 

“  Then  go  one  limb  higher.’^ 

In  a  few  minutes  the  voice  was  heard  again,  an¬ 
nouncing  that  the  seventh  limb  was  attained. 

‘^Now,  Jup,”  cried  Legrand,  evidently  much  excited, 
I  want  you  to  work  your  way  out  upon  that  limb  as 
far  as  you  can.  If  you  see  anything  strange,  let  me 
know.^’ 

By  this  time  what  little  doubt  I  might  have  enter¬ 
tained  of  my  poor  friend’s  insanity  was  put  finally 
at  rest.  I  had  no  alternative  but  to  conclude  him 
stricken  with  lunacy,  and  I  became  seriously  anxious 
about  getting  him  home.  While  I  was  pondering  upon 
what  was  best  to  be  done,  Jupiter’s  voice  was  again 
heard. 

Mos  feerd  for  to  ventur  pon  dis  limb  berry  far  — 
’tis  dead  limb  putty  much  all  de  way.” 

“  Did  you  say  it  was  a  dead  limb,  Jupiter  ?  ”  cried 
Legrand  in  a  quavering  voice. 

“Yes,  massa,  him  dead  as  de  door-nail  —  done  up 
for  sartain  —  done  departed  dis  here  life.” 


236 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


What  in  the  name  of  heaven  shall  I  do  ?  asked 
Legrand,  seemingly  in  the  greatest  distress. 

Do !  ”  said  I,  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  interpose  a 
word,  ‘‘  why  come  home  and  go  to  bed.  Come  now  ! 
—  that’s  a  fine  fellow.  It’s  getting  late,  and  besides, 
you  remember  your  promise.” 

“  Jupiter,”  cried  he,  without  heeding  me  in  the 
least,  ‘‘  do  you  hear  me  ?  ” 

Yes,  Massa  Will,  hear  you  ebber  so  plain.” 

Try  the  wood  well,  then,  with  your  knife,  and  see 
if  you  think  it  very  rotten.” 

Him  rotten,  massa,  sure  nuff,”  replied  the  negro 
in  a  few  moments,  but  not  so  berry  rotten  as  mought 
be.  Mought  ventur  out  leetle  way  pon  de  limb  by 
myself,  dat’s  true.” 

By  yourself  !  — what  do  you  mean  ?  ” 

‘^Why,  I  mean  de  bug.  ’Tis  herry  hebby  bug.^ 
Spose  I  drop  him  down  fuss,  and  den  de  limb  won’t 
break  wid  just  de  weight  ob  one  nigger.” 

■  ^‘You  infernal  scoundrel!”  cried  Legrand,  appar¬ 
ently  much  relieved,  what  do  you  mean  by  telling 
me  such  nonsense  as  that  ?  As  sure  as  you  let  that 
beetle  fall,  I’ll  break  your  neck.  Look  here,  Jupiter  ! 
do  you  hear  me  ?  ” 

Yes,  massa,  needn’t  hollo  at  poor  nigger  dat  style.” 


THE  GOLD-BUQ 


237 


Well !  now  listen!  —  if  you  will  venture  out  on 
the  limb  as  far  as  you  think  safe,  and  not  let  go  the 
beetle,  I’ll  make  you  a  present  of  a  silver  dollar  as 
soon  as  you  get  down.” 

“I’m  gwine,  Massa  Will  —  deed  I  is,”  replied  the 
negro  very  promptly —  “  mos  out  to  the  eend  now.” 

“  Out  to  the  end  I  ”  here  fairly  screamed  Legrand, 
“  do  you  say  you  are  out  to  the  end  of  that  limb  ?  ” 

“  Soon  be  to  de  eend,  massa,  —  o-o-o-o-oh  !  Lor-gol- 
a-marcy  !  what  is  dis  here  pon  de  tree  ?  ” 

“  Well !  ”  cried  Legrand,  highly  delighted,  “  what  is 
it?” 

“  Why  taint  nofiin  but  a  skull  —  somebody  bin  lef 
him  head  up  de  tree,  and  de  crows  done  gobble  ebery 
bit  ob  de  meat  off.” 

“A  skull,  you  say!  — very  well!'— how  is  it  fas¬ 
tened  to  the  limb  ?  —  what  holds  it  on  ?  ” 

“Sure  nuff,  massa;  mus  look.  Why,  dis  berry 
curous  sarcumstance,  pon  my  word  —  dare’s  a  great 
big  nail  in  de  skull,  what  fastens  ob  it  on  to  de  tree.” 

“Well  now,  Jupiter,  do  exactly  as  I  tell  you  —  do 
you  hear  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  massa.” 

“Pay  attention,  then!  —  find  the  left  eye  of  the 
skull.” 


238 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


«  Hum  I  hoo !  dat’s  good  !  why,  dar  ain’t  no  eye  lef 
at  all.” 

Curse  your  stupidity !  do  you  know  your  right 
hand  from  your  left  ?  ” 

Yes,  I  nose  dat — nose  all  bout  dat  —  ’tis  my  lef 

hand  what  I  chops  de  wood  wid.” 

‘‘To  be  sure!  you  are  left-handed;  and  your  left 
eye  is  on  the  same  side  as  your  left  hand.  Now,  I 
suppose,  you  can  find  the  left  eye  of  the  skull,  or  the 
place  where  the  left  eye  has  been.  Have  you  found 

it?” 

Here  was  a  long  pause.  At  length  the  negro  asked, 
“Is  de  lef  eye  of  de  skull  pon  de  same  side  as  de 
lef  hand  of  de  skull,  too  ?  —  cause  de  skull  ain’t  got 
not  a  bit  ob  a  hand  at  all  — nebber  mind!  I  got  de 
lef  eye  now  —  here  de  lef  eye  !  what  mus  do  wid  it  ? 

“  Let  the  beetle  drop  through  it,  as  far  as  the  string 
will  reach  —  but  be  careful  and  not  let  go  your  hold 
of  the  string.” 

“All  dat  done,  Massa  Will;  mighty  easy  ting  for 
to  put  de  bug  fru  de  hole  —  look  out  for  him  dar 

below  !  ” 

During  this  colloquy  no  portion  of  Jupiter  s  person 
could  be  seen ;  but  the  beetle,  which  he  had  suffered 
to  descend,  was  now  visible  at  the  end  of  the  string. 


THE  aOLD-BUa 


239 


and  glistened  like  a  globe  of  burnished  gold  in  the 
last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  some  of  which  still  faintly 
illumined  the  eminence  upon  which  we  stood.  The 
scaraboius  hung  quite  clear  of  any  branches,  and,  if 
allowed  to  fall,  would  have  fallen  at  our  feet  Le 
grand  immediately  took  the  scythe,  and  cleared  with 
It  a  circular  space,  three  or  four  yards  in  diameter, 

^  just  beneath  the  insect,  and,  having  accomplished 

this,  ordered  Jupiter  to  let  go  the  string  and  come 
down  from  the  tree. 

Driving  a  peg,  with  great  nicety,  into  the  ground  at 
the  precise  spot  where  the  beetle  fell,  my  friend  now 
I  produced  from  his  pocket  a  tape-measure.  Fastening 
one  end  of  this  at  that  point  of  the  trunk  of  the  tree 
w  iich  was  nearest  the  peg,  he  unrolled  it  till  it  reached 
the  peg,  and  thence  farther  unrolled  it,  in  the  direction 
a  ready  established  by  the  two  points  of  the  tree  and 
the  peg,  for  the  distance  of  fifty  feet-  Jupiter  clearing 
away  the  brambles  with  the  scythe.  At  the  spot  thus 
attained  a  second  peg  was  driven,  and  about  this  as 
:a  centre,  a  rude  circle,  about  four  feet  in  diameter, 
described.  Taking  now  a  spade  himself,  and  giving 
one  to  Jupiter  and  one  to  me,  Legrand  begged  us  to 
set  about  digging  as  quickly  as  possible. 

To  speak  the  truth,  I  had  no  especial  relish  for 


240 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


such,  amusement  at  any  time,  and,  at  that  particular 
moment,  would  most  willingly  have  declined  it ;  for 
the  night  was  coming  on,  and  I  felt  much  fatigued 
with  the  exercise  already  taken ;  but  I  saw  no  mode 
of  escape,  and  was  fearful  of  disturbing  my  poor 
friend’s  equanimity  by  a  refusal.  Could  I  have  de¬ 
pended,  indeed,  upon  Jupiter’s  aid,  I  would  have 
had  no  hesitation  in  attempting  to  get  the  lunatic 
home  by  force ;  but  I  was  too  well  assured  of  the  old 
negro’s  disposition  to  hope  that  he  would  assist  me, 
under  any  circumstances,  in  a  personal  contest  with 
his  master.  I  made  no  doubt  that  the  latter  had  been 
infected  with  some  of  the  innumerable  Southern  super¬ 
stitions  about  money  buried,  and  that  his  fantasy  had 
received  confirmation  by  the  finding  of  the' scarabceus, 
or,  perhaps,  by  Jupiter’s  obstinacy  in  maintaining  it 
to  be  ^^a  bug  of  real  gold.”  A  mind  disposed  to 
lunacy  would  readily  be  led  away  by  such  suggestions, 
especially  if  chiming  in  with  favorite  preconceived 
ideas;  and  then  I  called  to  mind  the  poor  fellow’s 
speech  about  the  beetle’s  being  ‘‘the  index  of  his 
fortune.”  Upon  the  whole,  I  was  sadly  vexed  and 
puzzled,  but  at  length  I  concluded  to  make  a  virtue 
of  necessity  —  to  dig  with  a  good  will,  and  thus 
the  sooner  to  convince  the  visionary,  by  ocular 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


241 


demonstration,  of  the  fallacy  of  the  opinions  he  en¬ 
tertained. 

The  lanterns  having  been  lit,  we  all  fell  to  work 
with  a  zeal  worthy  a  more  rational  cause ;  and,  as  the 
glare  fell  upon  our  persons  and  implements,  I  could 
not  help  thinking  how  picturesque  a  group  we  com¬ 
posed,  and  how  strange  and  suspicious  our  labors 
must  have  appeared  to  any  interloper  who,  by  chance, 
might  have  stumbled  upon  our  whereabouts. 

We  dug  very  steadily  for  two  hours.  Little  was 
said;  and  our  chief  embarrassment  lay  in  the  yelpings 
of  the  dog,  who  took  exceeding  interest  in  our  pro¬ 
ceedings.  He,  at  length,  became  so  obstreperous 
that  we  grew  fearful  of  his  giving  the  alarm  to  some 
stragglers  in  the  vicinity;  or,  rather,  this  was  the 
apprehension  of  Legrand ;  for  myself,  I  should  have 
rejoiced  at  any  interruption  which  might  have  enabled 
me  to  get  the  wanderer  home.  The  noise  was,  at 
length,  very  effectually  silenced  by  Jupiter,  who, 

I  getting  out  of  the  hole  with  a  dogged  air  of  delibera¬ 
tion,  tied  the  brute’s  mouth  up  with  one  of  his  sus¬ 
penders,  and  then  returned,  with  a  grave  chuckle,  to 
his  task. 

When  the  time  mentioned  had  expired,  we  had 
reached  a  depth  of  five  feet,  and  yet  no  signs  of  any 


242 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


treasure  became  manifest.  A  general  pause  ensued, 
and  I  began  to  hope  that  the  farce  was  at  an  end. 
Legrand,  however,  although  evidently  much  discon¬ 
certed,  wiped  his  brow  thoughtfully  and  recommenced. 
We  had  excavated  the  entire  circle  of  four  feet  di¬ 
ameter,  and  now  we  slightly  enlarged  the  limit,  and 
went  to  the  farther  depth  of  two  feet.  Still  nothing 
appeared.  The  gold-seeker,  whom  I  sincerely  pitied, 
at  length  clambered  from  the  pit,  with  the  bitterest 
disappointment  imprinted  upon  every  feature,  and 
proceeded,  slowly  and  reluctantly,  to  put  on  his  coat, 
which  he  had  thrown  off  at  the  beginning  of  his  labor. 
In  the  meantime  I  made  no  remark.  Jupiter,  at  a 
signal  from  his  master,  began  to  ga,ther  up  his  tools. 
This  done,  and  the  dog  having  been  unmuzzled,  we 
turned  in  profound  silence  towards  home. 

We  had  taken,  perhaps,  a  dozen  steps  in  this 
direction,  when,  with  a  loud  oath,  Legrand  strode 
up  to  Jupiter,  and  seized  him  by  the  collar.  The 
astonished  negro  opened  his  eyes  and  mouth  to  the 
fullest  extent,  let  fall  the  spades,  and  fell  upon  his 
knees. 

“  You  scoundrel,’’  said  Legrand,  hissing  out  the  syl¬ 
lables  from  between  his  clenched  teeth  —  “  you  infer¬ 
nal  black  villain  !  —  speak,  I  tell  you !  —  answer  me 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


243 


this  instant,  without  prevarication !  —  which  —  which 
is  your  left  eye  ? 

“  Oh,  my  golly,  Massa  Will !  ain’t  dis  here  my  lef 
eye  for  sartain  ?  ”  roared  the  terrified  J upiter,  placing 
his  hand  upon  his  right  organ  of  vision,  and  holding  it 
there  with  a  desperate  pertinacity,  as  if  in  immediate 
dread  of  his  master’s  attempt  at  a  gouge. 

I  thought  so  !  I  knew  it !  Hurrah  !  ”  vociferated 
Legrand,  letting  the  negro  go,  and  executing  a  series 
of  curvets  and  caracoles,  much  to  the  astonishment  of 
his  valet,  who,  arising  from  his  knees,  looked  mutely 
from  his  master  to  myself,  and  then  from  myself  to 
his  master. 

Come !  we  must  go  back,”  said  the  latter,  the 
game’s  not  up  yet ;  ”  and  he  again  led  the  way  to  the 
"  tulip  tree. 

“  Jupiter,”  said  he,  when  we  reached  its  foot,  come 
here !  Was  the  skull  nailed  to  the  limb  with  the  face 
outward,  or  with  the  face  to  the  limb  ?  ” 

He  face  was  out,  massa,  so  dat  de  crows  could  get 
at  de  eyes  good,  widout  any  trouble.” 

^^Well,  then,  was  it  this  eye  or  that  through  which 
you  dropped  the  beetle  ?  ”  here  Legrand  touched  each 
of  Jupiter’s  eyes. 

‘‘’Twas  dis  eye,  massa — de  lef  eye  —  jis  as  you 


244 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


tell  me,”  and  here  it  was  his  right  eye  that  the  negro 
indicated. 

That  will  do  —  we  must  try  it  again.” 

Here  my  friend,  about  whose  madness  I  now  saw, 
or  fancied  that  I  saw,  certain  indications  of  method, 
removed  the  peg  which  marked  the  spot  where  the 
beetle  fell,  to  a  spot  about  three  inches  to  the  west¬ 
ward  of  its  former  position.  Taking,  now,  the  tape- 
measure  from  the  nearest  point  of  the  trunk  to  the 
peg,  as  before,  and  continuing  the  extension  in  a 
straight  line  to  the  distance  of  fifty  feet,  a  spot  was 
indicated,  removed,  by  several  yards,  from  the  point 
at  which  we  had  been  digging. 

Around  the  new  position  a  circle,  somewhat  larger 
than  in  the  former  instance,  was  now  described,  and 
we  again  set  to  work  with  the  spades.  I  was  dread¬ 
fully  weary,  but,  scarcely  understanding  what  had  oc¬ 
casioned  the  change  in  my  thoughts,  I  felt  no  longer 
any  great  aversion  from  the  labor  imposed.  I  had 
become  most  unaccountably  interested  —  nay,  even 
excited.  Perhaps  there  was  something,  amid  all  the 
extravagant  demeanor  of  Legrand  —  some  air  of  fore¬ 
thought,  or  of  deliberation  —  which  impressed  me.  I 
dug  eagerly,  and  now  and  then  caught  myself  actually 
looking,  with  something  that  very  much  resembled  ex- 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


245 


pectation,  for  tho  fancied  treasure^  the  vision  of  which, 
had  demented  my  unfortimate  companion.  At  a 
period  when  such  vagaries  of  thought  most  fully  pos¬ 
sessed  me,  and  when  we  had  been  at  work  perhaps  an 
hour  and  a  half,  we  were  again  interrupted  by  the 
violent  bowlings  of  the  dog.  His  uneasiness,  in  the 
first  instance,  had  been  evidently  but  the  result  of 
playfulness  or  caprice,  but  he  now  assumed  a  bitter 
and  serious  tone.  Upon  Jupiter’s  again  attempting  to 
muzzle  him,  he  made  furious  resistance,  and,  leaping 
into  the  hole,  tore  up  the  mould  frantically  with  his 
paws.  In  a  few  seconds  he  had  uncovered  a  mass  of 
human  bones,  forming  two  complete  skeletons,  inter¬ 
mingled  with  several  buttons  of  metal,  and  what  ap¬ 
peared  to  be  the  dust  of  decayed  woollen.  One  or  two 
strokes  of  a  spade  upturned  the  blade  of  a  large  Span¬ 
ish  knife,  and,  as  he  dug  farther,  three  or  four  loose 
pieces  of  gold  and  silver  coin  came  to  light. 

At  sight  of  these  the  joy  of  Jupiter  could  scarcely 
be  restrained,  but  the  countenance  of  his  master  wore 
an  air  of  extreme  disappointment.  He  urged  us,  how¬ 
ever  to  continue  our  exertions,  and  the  words  were 
hardly  uttered  when  I  stumbled  and  fell  forward,  hav¬ 
ing  caught  the  toe  of  my  boot  in  a  large  ring  of  iron 
that  lay  half  buried  in  the  loose  earth. 


246 


*  THE  GOLD- BUG 


We  now  worked  in  earnest,  and  never  did  I  pass 
ten  minutes  of  more  intense  excitement.  During  this 
interval  we  had  fairly  unearthed  an  oblong  chest  of 
wood,  which,  from  its  perfect  preservation  and  won¬ 
derful  hardness,  had  plainly  been  subjected  to  some 
mineralizing  process  —  perhaps  that  of  the  bichloride 
of  mercury.  This  box  was  three  feet  and  a  half  long, 
three  feet  broad,  and  two  and  a  half  feet  deep.  It 
was  firmly  secured  by  bands  of  wrought  iron,  riveted, 
and  forming  a  kind  of  trellis-work  over  the  whole. 
On  each  side  of  the  chest,  near  the  top,  were  three 
rings  of  iron  —  six  in  all  —  by  means  of  which  a  firm 
hold  could  be  obtained  by  six  persons.  Our  utmost 
united  endeavors  served  only  to  disturb  the  coffer  very 
slightly  in  its  bed.  We  at  once  saw  the  impossibility 
of  removing  so  great  a  weight.  Luckily,  the  sole 
fastenings  of  the  lid  consisted  of  two  sliding  bolts. 
These  we  drew  back  —  trembling  and  panting  with 
anxiety.  In  an  instant,  a  treasure  of  incalculable 
value  lay  gleaming  before  us.  As  the  rays  of  the 
lanterns  fell  within  the  pit,  there  flashed  upwards, 
from  a  confused  heap  of  gold  and  of  jewels,  a  glow 
and  a  glare  that  absolutely  dazzled  our  eyes. 

I  shall  not  pretend  to  describe  the  feelings  with 
which  I  gazed.  Amazement  was,  of  course,  predomb 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


247 


naut.  Legrand  appeared  exhausted  with  excitement, 
and  spoke  very  few  words.  Jupiter’s  countenance 
wore,  for  some  minutes,  as  deadly  a  pallor  as  it  is 
possible,  in  the  nature  of  things,  for  any  negro’s  visage 
to  assume.  He  seemed  stupefied — thunder-stricken. 
Presently  he  fell  upon  his  knees  in  the  pit,  and,  burying 
his  naked  arms  up  to  the  elbows  in  gold,  let  them  there 
remain,  as  if  enjoying  the  luxury  of  a  bath.  At  length, 
with  a  deep  sigh,  he  exclaimed,  as  if  in  a  soliloquy : 

And  dis  all  cum  ob  de  goole-bug !  de  putty  goole- 
bug  !  de  poor  little  goole-bug,  what  I  boosed  in  dat 
sabage  kind  ob  style  !  Ain’t  you  shamed  ob  yourself, 
nigger  ?  answer  me  dat !  ” 

It  became  necessary,  at  last,  that  I  should  arouse 
both  master  and  valet  to  the  expediency  of  removing 
the  treasure.  It  was  growing  late,  and  it  behooved  us 
to  make  exertion,  that  we  might  get  everything  housed 
before  daylight.  It  was  difficult  to  say  what  should 
be  done,  and  much  time  was  spent  in  deliberation  — 
so  confused  were  the  ideas  of  all.  We  finally  light¬ 
ened  the  box  by  removing  two-thirds  of  its  contents, 
when  we  were  enabled,  with  some  trouble,  to  raise  it 
from  the  hole.  The  articles  taken  out  were  deposited 
among  the  brambles,  and  the  dog  left  to  guard  them, 
with  strict  orders  from  J upiter  neither,  upon  any  pre- 


248 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


i 


tence,  to  stir  from  the  spot,  nor  to  open  his  mouth 
until  our  return.  We  then  hurriedly  made  for  home 
with  the  chest ;  reaching  the  hut  in  safety,  but  after 
excessive  toil,  at  one  o’clock  in  the  morning.  Worn 
out  as  we  were,  it  was  not  in  human  nature  to  do 
more  just  now.  We  rested  until  two,  and  had  supper; 
starting  for  the  hills  immediately  afterwards,  armed 
with  three  stout  sacks,  which  by  good  luck  were  upon 
the  premises.  A  little  before  four  we  arrived  at  the 
pit,  divided  the  remainder  of  the  booty,  as  equally  as 
might  be,  among  us,  and,  leaving  the  hole  unfilled 
again  set  out  for  the  hut,  at  which,  for  the  second 
time,  we  deposited  our  golden  burdens,  just  as  the 
first  streaks  of  the  dawn  gleamed  from  over  the  tree- 
tops  in  the  east. 

We  were  now  thoroughly  broken  down;  but  the 
intense  excitement  of  the  time  denied  us  repose. 
After  an  unquiet  slumber  of  some  three  or  four  hours’ 
duration,  we  arose,  as  if  by  preconcert,  to  make  exami¬ 
nation  of  our  treasure. 

The  chest  had  been  full  to  the  brim,  and  we  spent 
the  whole  day,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  next  night, 
in  a  scrutiny  of  its  contents.  There  had  been  nothing 
like  order  or  arrangement.  Everything  had  been 
heaped  in  promiscuously.  Having  assorted  all  with 


i 


THE  GOLD- BUG 


249 


care,  we  found  ourselves  possessed  of  even  vaster 
wealth  than  we  had  at  first  supposed.  In  coin  there 
was  rather  more  than  four  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
dollars:  estimating  the  value  of  the  pieces,  as  accu¬ 
rately  as  we  could,  by  the  tables  of  the  period.  There 
was  not  a  particle  of  silver.  All  was  gold  of  antique 
date  and  of  great  variety :  French,  Spanish,  and  Ger¬ 
man  money,  with  a  few  English  guineas,  and  some 
counters,  of  which  we  had  never  seen  specimens  be¬ 
fore.  There  were  several  very  large  and  heavy  coins, 
so  worn  that  we  could  make  nothing  of  their  inscrip¬ 
tions.  There  was  no  American  money.  The  value  of 
the  jewels  we  found  more  difficulty  in  estimating. 
There  were  diamonds  —  some  of  them  exceedingly 
large  and  fine  —  a  hundred  and  ten  in  all,  and  not  one 
of  them  small;  eighteen  rubies  of  remarkable  brill¬ 
iancy  ;  three  hundred  and  ten  emeralds,  all  very  beau¬ 
tiful  ;  and  twenty-one  sapphires,  with  an  opal.  These 
stones  had  all  been  broken  from  their  settings  and 
thrown  loose  in  the  chest.  The  settings  themselves, 
which  we  picked  out  from  among  the  other  gold,  ap¬ 
peared  to  have  been  beaten  up  with  hammers,  as  if  to 
prevent  identification.  Besides  all  this,  there  was  a 
vast  quantity  of  solid  gold  ornaments :  nearly  two 
hundred  massive  finger  and  ear-rings ;  rich  chains  — 


250 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


thirty  of  these,  if  I  remember;  eighty-three  very  large 
and  heavy  crucifixes ;  five  gold  censers  of  great  value; 
a  prodigious  golden  punch-bowl,  ornamented  with 
richly  chased  vine-leaves  and  Bacchanalian  figures ; 
with  two  sword-handles  exquisitely  embossed,  and 
many  other  smaller  articles  which  I  cannot  recollect. 
The  weight  of  these  valuables  exceeded  three  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  avoirdupois ;  and  in  this  estimate  I 
have  not  included  one  hundred  and  ninety-seven  su¬ 
perb  gold  watches ;  three  of  the  number  being  worth 
each  five  hundred  dollars,  if  one.  Many  of  them  were 
very  old,  and  as  time-keepers  valueless,  the  works 
having  suffered  more  or  less  from  corrosion;  but 
all  were  richly  jewelled  and  in  cases  of  great  worth. 
We  estimated  the  entire  contents  of  the  chest,  that 
night,  at  a  million  and  a  half  of  dollars;  and,  upon 
the  subsequent  disposal  of  the  trinkets  and  jewels  (a 
few  being  retained  for  our  own  use),  it  was  found  that 
we  had  greatly  undervalued  the  treasure. 

When,  at  length,  we  had  concluded  our  examina¬ 
tion,  and  the  intense  excitement  of  the  time  had  in 
some  measure  subsided,  Legrand,  who  saw  that  I  was 
dying  with  impatience  for  a  solution  of  this  most 
extraordinary  riddle,  entered  into  a  full  detail  of  all 
the  circumstances  connected  with  it. 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


251 


^^You  remember/’  said  he,  ^‘the  night  when  I 
handed  you  the  rough  sketch  I  had  made  of  the 
scarabceus.  You  recollect,  also,  that  I  became  quite 
vexed  at  you  for  insisting  that  my  drawing  resembled 
a  death’s-head.  When  you  first  made  this  assertion  I 
thought  you  were  jesting;  but  afterwards  I  called  to 
mind  the  peculiar  spots  on  the  back  of  the  insect,  and 
admitted  to  myself  that  your  remark  had  some  little 
foundation  in  fact.  Still,  the  sneer  at  my  graphic 
powers  irritated  me  —  for  I  am  considered  a  good 
artist  —  and,  therefore,  when  you  handed  me  the 
scrap  of  parchment,  I  was  about  to  crumple  it  up  and 
throw  it  angrily  into  the  fire.” 

“  The  scrap  of  paper,  you  mean,”  said  I. 

No :  it  had  much  of  the  appearance  of  paper,  and  at 
first  I  supposed  it  to  be  such,  but  when  I  came  to  draw 
upon  it,  I  discovered  it,  at  once,  to  be  a  piece  of  very 
thin  parchment.  It  was  quite  dirty,  you  remember. 
Well,  as  I  was  in  the  very  act  of  crumpling  it  up,  my 
glance  fell  upon  the  sketch  at  which  you  had  been 
looking,  and  you  may  imagine  my  astonishment  when 
I  perceived,  in  fact,  the  figure  of  a  death’s-head  just 
where,  it  seemed  to  me,  I  had  made  ’the  drawing  of 
the  beetle.  Eor  a  moment  I  was  too  much  amazed  to 
think  with  accuracy.  I  knew  that  my  design  was 


252 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


very  different  in  detail  from  this  —  although  there 
was  a  certain  similarity  in  general  outline.  Presently 
I  took  a  candle  and,  seating  myself  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  proceeded  to  scrutinize  the  parchment 
more  closely.  Upon  turning  it  over,  I  saw  my  own 
sketch  upon  the  reverse,  just  as  I  had  made  it.  My 
first  idea,  now,  was  mere  surprise  at  the  really  re¬ 
markable  similarity  of  outline  —  at  the  singular  coin¬ 
cidence  involved  in  the  fact  that,  unknown  to  me, 
there  should  have  been  a  skull  upon  the  other  side  of 
the  parchment,  immediately  beneath  my  figure  of  the 
scai'ahcEus,  and  that  this  skull,  not  only  in  outline,  but 
in  size,  should  so  closely  resemble  my  drawing.  I 
say  the  singularity  of  this  coincidence  absolutely 
stupefied  me  for  a  time.  This  is  the  usual  effect  of 
such  coincidences.  The  mind  struggles  to  establish  a 
connection  —  a  sequence  of  cause  and  effect  —  and, 
being  unable  to  do  so,  suffers  a  species  of  temporary 
paralysis.  But,  when  I  recovered  from  this  stupor, 
there  dawned  upon  me  gradually  a  conviction  which 
startled  me  even  far  more  than  the  coincidence.  I 
began  distinctly,  positively,  to  remember  that  there 
had  been  no  drawing  on  the  parchment  when  I  made 
my  sketch  of  the  scarabceus.  I  became  perfectly  cer¬ 
tain  of  this  5  for  I  recollected  turning  up  first  one  side 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


253 


and  then  the  other,  in  search  of  the  cleanest  spot.  Had 
the  skull  been  then  there,  of  course  I  could  not  have 
failed  to  notice  it.  Here  was  indeed  a  mystery  which 
I  felt  it  impossible  to  explain ;  but,  even  at  that  early 
moment,  there  seemed  to  glimmer,  faintly,  within  the 
most  remote  and  secret  chambers  of  my  intellect,  a 
glow-worm-like  conception  of  that  truth  which  last 
night’s  adventure  brought  to  so  magnificent  a  demon¬ 
stration.  I  arose  at  once,  and,  putting  the  parchment 
securely  away,  dismissed  all  farther  reflection  until  I 
should  be  alone. 

“When  you  had  gone,  and  when  Jupiter  was  fast 
asleep,  I  betook  myself  to  a  more  methodical  investi¬ 
gation  of  the  affair.  In  the  first  place  I  considered 
the  manner  in  which  the  parchment  had  come  into  my 
possession.  The  spot  where  we  discovered  the  scara- 
bcBus  was  on  the  coast  of  the  mainland,  about  a  mile 
eastward  of  the  island,  and  but  a  short  distance  above 
high-water  mark.  Upon  my  taking  hold  of  it,  it  gave 
me  a  sharp  bite,  which  caused  me  to  let  it  drop. 
Jupiter,  with  his  accustomed  caution,  before  seizing 
the  insect,  which  had  flown  towards  him,  looked  about 
him  for  a  leaf,  or  something  of  that  nature,  by  which 
to  take  hold  of  it.  It  was  at  this  moment  that  his 
eyes,  and  mine  also,  fell  upon  the  scrap  of  parchment, 


254 


THE  GOLD- BUG 


which  I  then  supposed  to  be  paper.  It  was  lying 
half-buried  in  the  sand,  a  corner  sticking  up.  Near 
the  spot  where  we  found  it,  I  observed  the  remnants 
of  the  hull  of  what  appeared  to  have  been  a  ship’s 
long  boat.  The  wreck  seemed  to  have  been  there  for 
a  very  great  while;  for  the  resemblance  to  boat 
timbers  could  scarcely  be  traced. 

“Well,  Jupiter  picked  up  the  parchment,  wrapped 
the  beetle  in  it,  and  gave  it  to  me.  Soon  afterwards 
we  turned  to  go  home,  and  on  the  way  met  Lieutenant 

G - .  I  showed  him  the  insect,  and  he  begged  me 

to  let  him  take  it  to  the  fort.  On  my  consenting,  he 
thrust  it  forthwith  into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  without 
the  parchment  in  which  it  had  been  wrapped,  and 
which  I  had  continued  to  hold  in  my  hand  during  his 
inspection.  Perhaps  he  dreaded  my  changing  my 
mind,  and  thought  it  best  to  make  sure  of  the  prize  at 
once  —  you  know  how  enthusiastic  he  is  on  all  sub¬ 
jects  connected  with  Natural  History.  At  the  same 
time,  without  being  conscious  of  it,  I  must  have 
deposited  the  parchment  in  my  own  pocket. 

“  You  remember  that  when  I  went  to  the  table,  for 
the  purpose  of  making  a  sketch  of  the  beetle,  I  found 
no  paper  where  it  was  usually  kept.  I  looked  in  the 
drawer,  and  found  none  there.  I  searched  my  pockets, 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


255 


hoping  to  find  an  bid  letter,  and  then  my  hand' fell 
upon  the  parchment.  I  thus  detail  the  precise  mode 
in  which  it  came  into  my  possession ;  for  the  circum¬ 
stances  impressed  me  with  peculiar  force. 

“No  doubt  you  will  think  me  fanciful  —  but  I  had 
already  established  a  kind  of  connection.  I  had  put 
together  two  links  of  a  great  chain.  There  was  a  boat 
lying  on  a  seacoast,  and  not  far  from  the  boat  was  a 
parchment — not  a  paper — with  a  skull  depicted  on 
it.  You  will,  of  course,  ask  ^  where  is  the  connection  ?  ’ 
I  reply  that  the  skull,  or  death’s-head,  is  the  well- 
known  emblem  of  the  pirate.  The  flag  of  the  death’s-  ‘ 

head  is  hoisted  in  all  engagements. 

* 

“  I  have  said  that  the  scrap  was  parchment,  and  not 
paper.  Parchment  is  durable  —  almost  imperishable. 
Matters  of  little  moment  ■  are  rarely  consigned  to 
parchment ;  since,  for  the  mere  ordinary  purposes  of 
drawing  or  writing,  it  is  not  nearly  so  well  adapted  as 
paper.  This  reflection  suggested  some  meaning  — ^ 
some  relevancy  —  in  the  death’s-head.  I  did  not  fail 
to  observe,  also,  the  form  of  the  parchment.  Although 
one  of  its  corners  had  been,  by  some  accident,  de¬ 
stroyed,  it  could  be  seen  that  the  original  form  was 
oblong.  It  was  just  such  a  slip,  indeed,  as  might 
have  been  chosen  for  a  memorandum  —  for  a  record 


256 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


of  something  to  be  long  remembered  and  carefully 
preserved.’^ 

“  But/’  I  interposed,  “  you  say  that  the  skull  was 
not  upon  the  parchment  when  you  made  the  drawing 
of  the  beetle.  How  then  do  you  trace  any  connection 
between  the  boat  and  the  skull  —  since  this  latter, 
according  to  your  own  admission,  must  have  been 
designed  (God  only  knows  how  or  by  whom)  at  some 
period  subsequent  to  your  sketching  the  scarabceus  f  ” 
Ah,  hereupon  turns  the  whole  mystery ;  although 
the  secret,  at  this  point,  I  had  comparatively  little 
'  difficulty  in  solving.  My  steps  were  sure,  and  could 
afford  but  a  single  result.  I  reasoned,  for  example, 
thus  :  When  I  drew  the  scarabceus,  there  was  no  skull 
apparent  on  the  parchment.  When  I  had  completed 
the  drawing  I  gave  it  to  you,  and  observed  you  nar¬ 
rowly  until  you  returned  it.  You,  therefore,  did  not 
design  the  skull,  and  no  one  else  was  present  to  do  it. 
Then  it  was  not  done  by  human  agency.  And  never¬ 
theless  it  was  done. 

‘^At  this  stage  of  my  reflections  I  endeavored  to 
remember,  and  did  remember,  with  entire  distinctness, 
every  incident  which  occurred  about  the  period  in 
question.  The  weather  was  chilly  (0  rare  and  happy 
accident!),  and  a  fire  was  blazing  on  the  hearth.  I 


THE  GOLD- BUG 


257 


was  heated  with  exercise  and  sat  near  the  table.  You, 
however,  had  drawn  a  chair  close  to  the  chimney. 
Just  as  I  placed  the  parchment  in  your  hand,  and  as’ 
you  were  in  the  act  of  inspecting  it.  Wolf,  the  New¬ 
foundland,  entered,  and  leaped  upon  your  shoulders. 
With  your  left  hand  you  caressed  him  and  kept  him 
off,  while  your  right,  holding  the  parchment,  was  per¬ 
mitted  to  fall  listlessly  between  your  knees,  and  in 
close  proximity  to  the  fire.  At  one  moment  I  thought 
the  blaze  had  caught  it,  and  was  about  to  caution  you, 
but,  before  I  could  speak,  you  had  withdrawn  it,  and 
were  engaged  in  its  examination.  When  I  considered 
all  these  particulars,  I  doubted  not  for  a  moment  that 
heat  had  been  the  agent  in  bringing  to  light,  on  the 
parchment,  the  skull  which  I  saw  designed  on  it. 
You  are  well  aware  that  chemical  preparations  exist, 
and  have  existed  time  out  of  mind,  by  means  of 
which  it  is  possible  to  write  on  either  paper  or  vellum, 
so  that  the  characters  shall  become  visible  only  when 
subjected  to  the  action  of  fire.  Zaffre,  digested  in 
aqua  regia,  and  diluted  with  four  times  its  weight  of 
water,  is  sometimes  employed;  a  green  tint  results. 
The  regulus  of  cobalt,  dissolved  in  spirit  of  nitre, 
gives  a  red.  These  colors  disappear  at  longer  or 
shorter  intervals  after  the  material  written  upon  cools, 


s 


258 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


but  again  become  apparent  upon  the  reapplication  of 
heat. 

I  now  scrutinized  the  death’s-head  with  care.  Its 
outer  edges  —  the  edges  of  the  drawing  nearest  the 
edge  of  the  vellum  —  were  far  more  distinct  than  the 
others.  It  was  clear  that  the  action  of  the  caloric 
had  been  imperfect  or  unequal.  I  immediately  kin¬ 
dled  a  fire,  and  subjected  every  portion  of  the  parch¬ 
ment  to  a  glowing  heat.  At  first,  the  only  effect  was 
the  strengthening  of  the  faint  lines  in  the  skull ; 
but,  on  persevering  in  the  experiment,  there  became 
visible  at  the  corner  of  the  slip,  diagonally  opposite 
to  the  spot  in  which  the  death’s-head  was  delineated, 
the  figure  of  what  I  at  first  supposed  to  be  a  goat. 
A  closer  scrutiny,  however,  satisfied  me  that  it  was 
intended  for  a  kid.” 

“  Ha !  ha !  ”  said  I,  to  be  sure  I  have  no  right  to 
laugh  at  you  —  a  million  and  a  half  of  money  is  too 
serious  a  matter  for  mirth  —  but  you  are  not  about 
to  establish  a  third  link  in  your  chain:  you  will  not 
find  any  especial  connection  between  your  pirates  and 
a  goat ;  pirates,  you  know,  have  nothing  to  do  with 
goats ;  they  appertain  to  the  farming  interest.” 

But  I  have  just  said  that  the  figure  was  not  that 
of  a  goat.” 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


259 


“Well,  a  kid,  then  —  pretty  much  the  same  thing.’^ 

“Pretty  much,  but  not  altogether,’’  said  Legrand. 
“You  may  have  heard  of  one  Captain  Kidd.  I  at 
once  looked  on  the  figure  of  the  animal  as  a  kind  of 
punning  or  hieroglyphical  signature.  I  say  signature, 
because  its  position  on  the  vellum  suggested  this  idea. 
The  death’s-head  at  the  corner  diagonally  opposite 
had,  in  the  same  manner,  the  air  of  a  stamp,  or  seal. 
But  I  was  sorely  put  out  by  the  absence  of  all  else  — 
of  the  body  to  my  imagined  instrument  —  of  the  text 
for  my  context.” 

“I  presume  you  expected  to  find  a  letter  between 
the  stamp  and  the  signature.” 

“  Something  of  that  kind.  The  fact  is,  I  felt  irre¬ 
sistibly  impressf d  with  a  presentiment  of  some  vast 
good  fortune  impending.  I  can  scarcely  say  why. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  rather  a  desire  than  an  actual 
belief ;  —  but  do  you  know  that  Jupiter’s  silly  words, 
about  the  bug  being  of  solid  gold,  had  a  remarkable 
effect  on  my  fancy  ?  And  then  the  series  of  accidents 
and  coincidences  —  these  were  so  very  extraordinary. 
Do  you  observe  how  mere  an  accident  it  was  that 
these  events  should  have  occurred  on  the  sole  day  of 
all  the  year  in  which  it  has  been,  or  may  be,  suffi¬ 
ciently, cool  for  fire,  and  that  without  the  fire,  or  with- 


260 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


out  the  intervention  of  the  dog  at  the  precise  moment 
in  which  he  appeared,  I  should  never  have  become 
aware  of  the  death’s-head,  and  so  never  the  possessor 
of  the  treasure  ?  ”  ^ 

But  proceed  —  I  am  all  impatience.” 

Well ;  you  have  heard,  of  course,  the  many  stories  ; 
current  —  the  thousand  vague  rumors  afloat  about 
money  buried,  somewhere  on  the  Atlantic  coast,  by 
Kidd  and  his  associates.  These  rumors  must  have 
had  some  foundation  in  fact.  And  that  the  rumors 
have  existed  so  long  and  so  continuously,  could  have 
resulted,  it  appeared  to  me,  only  from  the  circum¬ 
stance  of  the  buried  treasure  still  remainiiig  entombed. 
Had  Kidd  concealed  his  plunder  for  a  time,  and  after¬ 
wards  reclaimed  it,  the  rumors  would  scarcely  have 
reached  us  in  their  present  unvarying  form.  You 
will  observe  that  the  stories  told  are  all  about  money- 
seekers,  not  about  money-finders.  Had  the  pirate 
recovered  his  money,  there  the  affair  would  have 
dropped.  It  seemed  to  me  that  some  accident  —  say 
the  loss  of  a  memorandum  indicating  its  locality  — 
had  deprived  him  of  the  means  of  recovering  it,  and 
that  this  accident  had  become  known  to  his  followers, 
who  otherwise  might  never  have  heard  that  treasure 
had  been  concealed  at  all,  and  who,  busying  them- 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


261 


selves  in  vain,  because  unguided,  attempts  to  regain 
it,  had  given  first  birth,  and  then  universal  currency, 
to  the  reports  which  are  now  so  common.  Have  you 
ever  heard  of  any  important  treasure  being  unearthed 
along  the  coast  ? 

“hTever.^^ 

But  that  Kidd’s  accumulations  were  immense  is 
well  known.  I  took  it  for  granted,  therefore,  that 
'  the  earth  still  held  them ;  and  you  will  scarcely  be 
;  surprised  when  I  tell  you  that  I  felt  a  hope,  nearly 
I  amounting  to  certainty,  that  the  parchment  so 
strangely  found  involved  a  lost  record  of  the  place 
i  of  deposit.” 

!  But  how  did  you  proceed  ?  ” 

'  “  I  held  the  vellum  again  to  the  fire,  after  increas- 

:  ing  the  heat,  but  nothing  appeared.  I  now  thought 
!  it  possible  that  the  coating  of  dirt  might  have  some¬ 
thing  to  do  with  the  failure ;  so  I  carefully  rinsed 
the  parchment  by  pouring  warm  water  over  it,  and, 
having  done  this,  I  placed  it  in  a  tin  pan,  with  the 
skull  downwards,  and  put  the  pan  upon  a  furnace  of 
lighted  charcoal.  In  a  few  minutes,  the  pan  having 
become  thoroughly  heated,  I  removed  the  slip,  and, 
to  my  inexpressible  joy,  found  it  spotted,  in  several 
places,  with  what  appeared  to  be  figures  arranged  in 


262 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


lines.  Again  I  placed  it  in  the  pan,  and  suffered  it  I 
to  remain  another  minute.  Upon  taking  it  off,  the 
whole  was  just  as  you  see  it  now.” 

Here  Legrand,  having  reheated  the  parchment,  ; 
submitted  it  to  my  inspection.  The  following  char¬ 
acters  were  rudely  traced,  in  a  red  tint,  between  the 
death’s-head  and  the  goat :  —  j 

63ttt305))6*;4826)4t.)4t);806^;48t81I60))  85;;]  8*;:t*8t83(8  '' 

8)6*t;46(;88*96*?;8)*t(;485);5*t2:*U;4956*2(5*— 4)81I8*;4069  j 
285);)6t8)4ti;l(t9;48081;8:8Jl;48t85;4)485t528806*81(J9;48;( 
88;4(t?34;48)4t;161;:188;t?;  ' 

“  But,”  said  I,  returning  him  the  slip,  “  I  am  as 
much  in  the  dark  as  ever.  Were  all  the  jewels  of 
Golconda  awaiting  me  on  my  solution  of  this  enigma, 

I  am  quite  sure  that  I  should  be  unable  to  earn  them.” 

And  yet,”  said  Legrand,  ^‘the  solution  is  by  no 
means  so  difficult  as  you  might  be  led  to  imagine  from 
the  first  hasty  inspection  of  the  characters.  These 
characters,  as  any  one  might  readily  guess,  form  a  ' 
cipher  —  that  is  to  say,  they  convey  a  meaning ;  but  ' 
then,  from  what  is  known  of  Kidd,  I  could  not  sup-  j 
pose  him  capable  of  constructing  any  of  the  more 
abstruse  cryptographs.  I  made  up  my  mind,  at  once,  I 
that  this  was  of  a  simple  species  —  such,  however,  as 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


263 


would  appear,  to  the  crude  intellect  of  the  sailor,  abso¬ 
lutely  insoluble  without  the  key.’^ 

And  you  really  solved  it  ? 

Readily ;  I  have  solved  others  of  an  abstruseness 
ten  thousand  times  greater.  Circumstances,  and  a 
certain  bias  of  mind,  have  led  me  to  take  interest  in 
such  riddles,  and  it  may  well  be  doubted  whether 
human  ingenuity  can  construct  an  enigma  of  the  kind 
which  human  ingenuity  may  not,  by  proper  applica¬ 
tion,  resolve.  In  fact,  having  once  established  con¬ 
nected  and  legible  characters,  I  scarcely  gave  a  thought 
to  the  mere  difficulty  of  developing  their  import. 

“In  the  present  case  —  indeed  in  all  cases  of  secret 
writing  —  the  first  question  regards  the  language  of 
the  cipher ;  for  the  principles  of  solution,  so  far, 
especially,  as  the  more  simple  ciphers  are  concerned, 
depend  on,  and  are  varied  by,  the  genius  of  the  par¬ 
ticular  idiom.  In  general,  there  is  no  alternative  but 
experiment  (directed  by  probabilities)  of  every  tongue 
known  to  him  who  attempts  the  solution,  until  the  true 
one  be  attained.  But,  with  the  cipher  now  before  us, 
all  difficulty  is  removed  by  the  signature.  The  pun 
upon  the  word  ^Kidd’  is  appreciable  in  no  other 
language  than  the  English.  But  for  this  considera¬ 
tion  I  should  have  begun  my  attempts  with  the 


264 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


Spanish  and  French,  as  the  tongues  in  which  a  secret 
of  this  kind  would  most  naturally  have  been  written 
by  a  pirate  of  the  Spanish  main.  As  it  was,  I  as¬ 
sumed  the  cryptograph  to  be  English. 

‘‘You  observe  there  are  no  divisions  between  the 
words.  Had  there  been  divisions,  the  task  would 
have  been  comparatively  easy.  In  such  case  I  should 
have  commenced  with  a  collation  and  analysis  of  the 
shorter  words,  and,  had  a  word  of  a  single  letter 
occurred,  as  is  most  likely  (a  or  I,  for  example),  I 
should  have  considered  the  solution  as  assured.  But, 
there  being  no  division,  my  first  step  was  to  ascertain 
the  predominant  letters,  as  well  as  the  least  frequent. 
Counting  all,  I  constructed  a  table,  thus ; 

Of  the  character  8  there  are  33 


• 

$ 

u 

26 

4 

19 

t) 

(( 

16 

* 

(( 

13 

5 

(( 

12 

6 

(( 

11 

tl 

C( 

8 

0 

(( 

6 

92 

6 

:  3 

u 

4 

? 

(( 

3 

IT 

(C 

2 

1 

t( 

1 

^^Kow,  in  English,  the  letter  which  most  frequently 
occurs  is  e.  Afterwards  the  succession  runs  thus : 
aoidlinrstuycfglmwh'kpgxz.  E  predominates, 
however,  so  remarkably  that  an  individual  sentence 
of  any  length  is  rarely  seen,  in  which  it  is  not  the 
prevailing  character. 

^^Here  then,  we  have,  in  the  very  beginning,  the 
groundwork  for  something  more  than  a  mere  guess. 
The  general  use  which  may  be  made  of  the  table  is  ob¬ 
vious —  but,  in  this  particular  cipher,  we  shall  only 
very  partially  require  its  aid.  As  our  predominant 
character  is  8,  we  will  commence  by  assuming  it  as  the 
e  of  the  natural  alphabet.  To  verify  the  supposition, 
let  us  observe  if  the  8  be  seen  often  in  couples  —  for 
e  is  doubled  with  great  frequency  in  English  —  in 
such  words,  for  example,  as  ^meet,’  ^  fleet,’  ^  speed,’ 
^  seen,’  ‘  been,’  ‘  agree,’  etc.  In  the  present  instance 
we  see  it  doubled  no  less  than  five  times,  although  the 
cryptograph  is  brief. 

Let  us  assume  8,  then,  as  e.  Now,  of  all  words  in 
the  language,  ‘  the  ’  is  most  usual ;  let  us  see,  there¬ 
fore,  whether  there  are  not  repetitions  of  any  three 
characters,  in  the  same  order  of  collocation,  the  last 
of  them  being  ^8.  If  we  discover  repetitions  of  such 
letters,  so  arranged,  they  will  most  probably  represent 


266 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


the  word  ^the/  On  inspection,  we  find  no  less  than 
seven  such  arrangements,  the  characters  being  ;48. 
We  may,  therefore,  assume  that  the  semicolon  repre¬ 
sents  t,  that  4  represents  h,  and  that  8  represents  e  — 
the  last  being  now  well  confirmed.  Thus  a  great  step 
has  been  taken. 

‘^But,  having  established  a  single  word,  we  are 
enabled  to  establish  a  vastly  important  point ;  that  is 
to  say,  several  commencements  and  terminations  of 
other  words.  Let  us  refer,  for  example,  to  the  last 
instance  but  one,  in  which  the  combination  ;48  occurs 
—  not  far  from  the  end  of  the  cipher.  We  know  that 
the  semicolon  immediately  ensuing  is  the  commence¬ 
ment  of  a  word,  and,  of  the  six  characters  succeeding 
this  ‘  the,’  we  are  cognizant  of  no  less  than  five.  Let 
us  set  these  characters  down,  thus,  by  the  letters  we 
know  them  to  represent,  leaving  a  space  for  the 
unknown  — 

t  eeth 

Here  we  are  enabled,  at  once,  to  discard  the  < 
as  forming  no  portion  of  the  word  commencing  with 
the  first  t ;  since,  by  experiment  of  the  entire  alphabet 
for  a  letter  adapted  to  the  vacancy,  we  perceive  that 
no  word  can  be  formed  of  which  this  th  can  be  a  part. 
We  are  thus  narrowed  into 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


267 


.and,  going  through  the  alphabet,  if  necessary,  as  be- 
Ifore,  we  arrive  at  the  word  ^tree^  as  the  sole  possible 
I  reading.  We  thus  gain  another  letter  r,  represented 
by  (,  with  the  words  'the  tree  ’  in  juxtaposition. 

“Looking  beyond  these  words,  for  a  short  distance, 
we  again  see  the  combination  ;48,  and  employ  it  by 
■  way  of  termination  to  what  immediately  precedes. 
We  have  thus  this  arrangement: 

the  tree  ;4(J?34  the, 

or,  substituting  the  natural  letters,  where  known,  it 
1  reads  thus: 

the  tree  thrf?3h  the. 

“ISTow,  if,  in  place  of  the  unknown  characters,  we 
■1  leave  blank  spaces,  or  substitute  dots,  we  read  thus : 

I 

the  tree  thr  .  .  .  h  the, 

I  when  the  word  '  through  ^  makes  itself  evident  at  once. 

I  But  this  discovery  gives  us  three  new  letters,  o,  u  and 
p,  represented  by  f  ?  and  3. 

“Looking  now,  narrowly,  through  the  cipher  for 
combinations  of  known  characters,  we  find,  not  very 
far  from  the  beginning,  this  arrangement. 

I  84(88,  or  egree,  • ' 


268 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


which,  plainly,  is  the  conclusion  of  the  word  ^  degree/ 
and  gives  us  another  letter,  d,  represented  by  t* 

‘‘Four  letters  beyond  the  word  ‘degree,’ we  perceive 
the  combination 

;46(;88* 

“Translating  the  known  characters,  and  represent¬ 
ing  the  unknown  by  dots,  as  before  we  read  thus : 

th  .  rtee. 

an  arrangement  immediately  suggestive  of  the  word 
‘  thirteen,’  and  again  furnishing  us  with  two  new  char¬ 
acters,  i  and  n,  represented  by  6  and  *. 

“Eeferring,  now,  to  the  beginning  of  the  crypto¬ 
graph  we  find  the  combination, 

53ttt. 

“  Translating  as  before,  we  obtain 

good, 

which  assures  us  that  the  first  letter  is  -4,  and  that  the 

first  two  words  are  ‘  A  good.’ 

“  To  avoid  confusion,  it  is  now  time  that  we  arrange 

our  key,  as  far  as  discovered,  in  a  tabular  form.  It 

will  stand  thus :  , 

5  represents  a 

t  “  d 

8  “  e 

3  “  g 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


269 


4  represents  h 

^  6  “  i 

#  «t  u 

I  “  o 

(  “  r 

;  “  t 

« We  have,  therefore,  no  less  than  ten  of  the  most 
:  important  letters  represented,  and  it  will  be  unneces¬ 
sary  to  proceed  with  the  details  of  the  solution.  I  have 
.  said  enough  to  convince  you  that  ciphers  of  this  nature 
are  readily  soluble,  and  to  give  you  some  insight  into 
,tthe  rationale  of  their  development.  But  be  assured 
^  that  the  specimen  before  us  appertains  to  the  very 
,  simplest  species  of  cryptograph.  It  now  only  re- 
|i  mains  to  give  you  the  full  translation  of  the  charac- 
tters  upon  the  parchment,  as  unriddled.  Here  it  is  : 

good  glass  in  the  bishop’s  hostel  in  the  devil’s 
seat  twenty  one  degrees  and  thirteen  minutes  north¬ 
east  and  by  north  main  branch  seventh  limb  east  side 
shoot  from  the  left  eye  of  the  death’s-head  a  bee  line 
from  the  tree  through  the  shot  fifty  feet  out’  ” 

But,''  said  I,  the  enigma  seems  still  in  as  bad  a 
I  condition  as  ever.  How  is  it  possible  to  extort  a 
^meaning  from  all  this  jargon  about  ^  devil's  seat,' 

^  death's-heads,'  and  ^  bishop's  hotels  '  ?  " 


( 


270 


THE  GOLD-BUa 


I  confess/’  replied  Legrand,  “  that  the  ni&,tter  still 
wears  a  serious  aspect,  when  regarded  with  a  casual 
glance.  My  first  endeavor  was  to  divide  the  sentence 
into  the  natural  division  intended  by  the  cryptog- 
raphist.” 

You  mean,  to  punctuate  it  ?  ” 

Something  of  that  kind.” 

But  how  was  it  possible  to  effect  this  ?  ” 

1  reflected  that  it  had  been  a  point  with  the  writer 
to  run  his  words  together  without  division,  so  as  to 
increase  the  difficulty  of  solution.  Now,  a  not  over¬ 
acute  man,  in  pursuing  such  an  object,  would  be 
nearly  certain  to  overdo  the  matter.  W^hen,  in  the 
course  of  his  composition,  he  arrived  at  a  break  in  his 
subject  which  would  naturally  require  a  pause,  or  a 
point,  he  would  be  exceedingly  apt  to  run  his  charac¬ 
ters,  at  this  place,  more  than  usually  close  together. 
If  you  will  observe  the  MS.,  in  the  present  instance, 
you  will  easily  detect  five  such  cases  of  unusual  crowd¬ 
ing.  Acting  on  this  hint,  I  made  the  division  thus : 

^  M  good  glass  in  the  JBishop’s  hostel  in  the  Devil  s 
seat _ twenty-one  degrees  and  thirteen  minutes  —  north¬ 

east  and  by  north — main  branch  seventh  limb  east  side 

_ shoot  from  the  left  eye  of  the  death’s  head  —  a  bee* 

line  from  the  tree  through  the  shot  fifty  feet  out.”^ 


THE  GOLD-JWQ 


271 


Even  this  division/^  said  I,  leaves  me  still  in  the 
dark.” 

It  left  me  also  in  the  dark,”  replied  Legrand,  “  for 
a  few  days ;  during  which  I  made  diligent  inquiry,  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Sullivan’s  Island,  for  any  build¬ 
ing  which  went  by  the  name  of  the  ‘  Bishop’s  Hotel  ’ ; 
for,  of  course,  I  dropped  the  obsolete  word  ‘hostel.’ 
Gaining  no  information  on  the  subject,  I  was  on  the 
point  of  extending  my  sphere  of  search,  and  proceed- 
■  ing  in  a  more  systematic  manner,  when  one  morning 
it  entered  into  my  head,  quite  suddenly,  that  this 
‘  Bishop’s  Hostel  ’  might  have  some  reference  to  an 
old  family,  of  the  name  of  Bessop,  which,  time  out  of 
mind,  had  held  possession  of  an  ancient  manor-house, 
about  four  miles  to  the  northward  of  the  island.  I 
accordingly  went  over  to  the  plantation,  and  reinsti¬ 
tuted  my  inquiries  among  the  older  negroes  of  the 
place.  At  length  one  of  the  most  aged  of  the  women 
said  that  she  had  heard  of  such  a  place  as  Bessop^s 
Castle,  and  thought  that  she  could  guide  me  to  it,  but 
that  it  was  not  a  castle,  nor  a  tavern,  but  a  high  rock. 

“  I  offered  to  pay  her  well  for  her  trouble,  and,  after 
some  demur,  she  consented  to  accompany  me  to  the 
spot.  We  found  it  without  much  difficulty,  when, 
dismissing  her,  I  proceeded  to  examine  the  place. 


272 


TKE  GOLD-BUG 


The  ^castle’  consisted  of  an  irregular  assemblage  of 
cliffs  and  rocks  —  one  of  the  latter  being  quite  re¬ 
markable  for  its  height  as  well  as  for  its  insulated 
and  artificial  appearance.  I  clambered  to  its  apex, 
and  then  felt  much  at  a  loss  as  to  what  should  be 
next  done. 

While  I  was  busied  in  reflection,  my  eyes  fell  on  a 
narrow  ledge  in  the  eastern  face  of  the  rock,  perhaps 
a  yard  below  the  summit  upon  which  I  stood.  This 
ledge  projected  about  eighteen  inches,  and  was  not  • 
more  than  a  foot  wide,  while  a  niche  in  the  cliff  just 
above  it  gave  it  a  rude  resemblance  to  one  of  the 
hollow-backed  chairs  used  by  our  ancestors.  I  made 
no  doubt  that  here  was  the  ^  devil’s  seat  ’  alluded  to  in 
the  MS.,  and  now  I  seemed  to  grasp  the  full  secret  of 
the  riddle. 

“  The  ‘  good  glass,’  I  knew,  could  have  reference  to 
nothing  but  a  telescope ;  for  the  word  ^  glass  ’  is  rarely 
employed  in  any  other  sense  by  seamen.  Now  here, 

I  at  once  saw,  was  a  telescope  to  be  used,  and  a  defi¬ 
nite  point  of  view,  admitting  no  variatio7i,  from  which 
to  use  it.  Nor  did  I  hesitate  to  believe  that  the 
phrases,  Hwenty-one  degrees  and  thirteen  minutes,’ 
and  ^north-east  and  by  north,’  were  intended  as  direc¬ 
tions  for  the  levelling  of  the  glass.  Greatly  excited 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


273 


by  these  discoveries,  I  hurried  home,  procured  a  tele¬ 
scope,  and  returned  to  the  rock. 

“  I  let  myself  down  to  the  ledge,  and  found  that  it 
was  impossible  to  retain  a  seat  on  it  unless  in  one 
particular  position.  This  fact  confirmed  my  precon¬ 
ceived  idea.  I  proceeded  to  use  the  glass.  Of  course, 
the  ^  twenty-one  degrees  and  thirteen  minutes  ’  could 
allude  to  nothing  but  elevation  above  the  visible  hori¬ 
zon,  since  the  horizontal  direction  was  clearly  indicated 
by  the  words,  ‘  north-east  and  by  north.’  This  latter 
direction  I  at  once  established  by  means  of  a  pocket- 
compass  ;  then,  pointing  the  glass  as  nearly  at  an 
angle  of  twenty-one  degrees  of  elevation  as  I  could  do 
by  guess,  I  moved  it  cautiously  up  or  down,  until 
my  attention  was  arrested  by  a  circular  rift  or  opening 
in  the  foliage  of  a  large  tree  that  overtopped  its  fellows 
in  the  distance.  In  the  centre  of  this  rift  I  perceived 
a  white  spot,  but  could  not,  at  first,  distinguish  what 
it  was.  Adjusting  the  focus  of  the  telescope,  I  again 
looked,  and  now  made  it  out  to  be  a  human  skull. 

On  this  discovery  I  was  so  sanguine  as  to  consider 
the  enigma  solved;  for  the  phrase  ^main  branch, 
seventh  limb,  east  side,’  could  refer  only  to  the  posi¬ 
tion  of  the  skull  on  the  tree,  while  ^  shoot  from  the 
left  eye  of  the  death’s-head’  admitted,  also,  of  but  one 


274 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


interpretation,  in  regard  to  a  search  for  buried  treas¬ 
ure.  I  perceived  that  the  design  was  to  drop  a  bullet 
from  the  left  eye  of  the  skull,  and  that  a  bee-line,  or, 
in  other  words,  a  straight  line,  drawn  from  the  near¬ 
est  point  of  the  trunk  through  ‘  the  shot  ’  (or  the  spot 
where  the  bullet  fell),  and  thence  extended  to  a  dis¬ 
tance  of  fifty  feet,  would  indicate  a  definite  point  — 
and  beneath  this  point  I  thought  it  at  least  possible 
that  a  deposit  of  value  lay  concealed.” 

‘^All  this,”  I  said,  ‘‘is  exceedingly  clear,  and,  al¬ 
though  ingenious,  still  simple  and  explicit.  When  you 
left  the  Bishop’s  Hotel,  what  then  ?  ” 

‘^Why,  having  carefully  taken  the  bearings  of  the 
tree,  I  turned  homewards.  The  instant  that  I  left 
^  the  devil’s  seat,’  however,  the  circular  rift  vanished  ; 
nor  could  I  get  a  glimpse  of  it  afterwards,  turn  as  I 
would.  What  seems  to  me  the  chief  ingenuity  in  this 
whole  business,  is  the  fact  (for  repeated  experiment 
has  convinced  me  it  is  a  fact)  that  the  circular  opening 
in  question  is  visible  from  no  other  attainable  point  of 
view  than  that  afforded  by  the  narrow  ledge  on  the 
face  of  the  rock. 

“  In  this  expedition  to  the  ‘  Bishop’s  Hotel  ’  I  had 
been  attended  by  Jupiter,  who  had  no  doubt  observed, 
for  some  weeks  past,  the  abstraction  of  my  demeanor. 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


275 


and  took  especial  care  not  to  leave  me  alone.  But  on 
the  next  day,  getting  up  very  early,  I  contrived  to  give 
him  the  slip,  and  went  into  the  hills  in  search  of  the 
tree.  After  much  toil  I  found  it.  When  I  came 
home  at  night  my  valet  proposed  to  give  me  a  flog¬ 
ging.  With  the  rest  of  the  adventure  I  believe  you 
are  as  well  acquainted  as  myself.” 

I  suppose,”  said  I,  “  you  missed  the  spot,  in  the 
first  attempt  at  digging,  through  Jupiter’s  stupidity  in 
letting  the  bug  fall  through  the  right  instead  of  through 
the  left  eye  of  the  skull.” 

Precisely.  This  mistake  made  a  difference  of 
about  two  inches  and  a  half  in  the  ‘  shot  ’  —  that  is  to 
say,  in  the  position  of  the  peg  nearest  the  tree ;  and 
had  the  treasure  been  beneath  the  ^  shot,’  the  error 
would  have  been  of  little  moment;  but  ‘the  shot,’ 
together  with  the  nearest  point  of  the  tree,  were 
merely  two  points  for  the  establishment  of  a  line  of 
direction ;  of  course  the  error,  however  trivial  in  the 
beginning,  increased  as  we  proceeded  with  the  line, 
and,  by  the  time  we  had  gone  fifty  feet,  threw  us  quite 
off  the  scent.  But  for  my  deep-seated  convictions 
that  treasure  was  here  somewhere  actually  buried, 
we  might  have  had  all  our  labor  in  vain.” 

“  I  presume  the  fancy  of  the  skull  —  of  letting  fall  a 


276 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


bullet  through  the  skull’s  eye  — was  suggested  to  i 
Kidd  by  the  piratical  flag.  No  doubt  he  felt  a  kind  . 
of  poetical  consistency  in  recovering  his  money  through  ' 
this  ominous  insignium.” 

“Perhaps  so;  still,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that 
common-sense  had  quite  as  much  to  do  with  the 
matter  as  poetical  consistency.  To  be  visible  from 
the  Devil’s  seat,  it  was  necessary  that  the  object,  if 
small,  should  be  whiter  and  there  is  nothing  like 
your  human  skull  for  retaining  and  even  increasing 
its  whiteness  under  exposure  to  all  vicissitudes  of 
weather.” 

“  But  your  grandiloquence,  and  your  conduct  in 
swinging  the  beetle  — how  excessively  odd!  I  was 
sure  you  were  mad.  And  why  did  you  insist  on 
letting  fall  the  bug,  instead  of  a  bullet,  from  the 
skull  ?  ” 

“Why,  to  be  frank,  I  felt  somewhat  annoyed  by 
your  evident  suspicions  touching  my  sanity,  and  so 
resolved  to  punish  you  quietly,  in  my  own  way,  by  a 
little  bit  of  sober  mystification.  For  this  reason  I 
swung  the  beetle,  and  for  this  reason  I  let  it  fall  from 
the  tree.  An  observation  of  yours  about  its  great 
weight  suggested  the  latter  idea.” 

“Yes,  I  perceive;  and  noV  there  is  only  one  point 


THE  GOLD-BUG 


277 


which  puzzles  me.  What  are  we  to  make  of  the 
skeletons  found  in  the  hole  ?  ” 

“That  is  a  question  I  am  no  more  able  to  answer 
than  yourself.  There  seems,  however,  only  one  plau¬ 
sible  way  of  accounting  for  them  —  and  yet  it  is  dread¬ 
ful  to  believe  in  such  atrocity  as  my  suggestion  would 
imply.  It  is  clear  that  Kidd  —  if  Kidd  indeed  secreted 
this  treasure,  which  I  doubt  not  —  it  is  clear  that  he 
must  have  had  assistance  in  the  labor.  But,  the  worst 
of  this  labor  concluded,  he  may  have  thought  it 
expedient  to  remove  all  participants  in  his  secret. 
Perhaps  a  couple  of  blows  with  a  mattock  were  suffi¬ 
cient,  while  his  coadjutors  were  busy  in  the  pit ;  per¬ 
haps  it  required  a  dozen  —  who  shall  tell  ? 


I 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE"  *  | 

What  song  the  Sirens  sang,  or  what  name  Achilles  assumed  | 
when  he  hid  himself  among  women,  although  puzzling  questions,  j 
are  not  beyond  all  conjecture.  ^ 

Sir  Thomas  Browne  :  Urn-Burial. 

I 

The  mental  features  discoursed  of  as  the  analytical 
are,  in  themselves,  but  little  susceptible  of  analysis. 

We  appreciate  them  only  in  their  effects.  We  know  I 
of  them,  among  other  things,  that  they  are  always  to 
their  possessor,  when  inordinately  possessed,  a  source 
of  the  liveliest  enjoyment.  As  the  strong  man  exults 
in  his  physical  ability,  delighting  in  such  exercises 
as  call  his  muscles  into  action,  so  glories  the  ana-  ; 
lyst  in  that  moral  activity  which  disentangles.  He  ! 
derives  pleasure  from  even  the  most  trivial  occupa¬ 
tions  bringing  his  talent  into  play.  He  is  fond  of 
enigmas,  of  conundrums,  of  hieroglyphics  ;  exhibiting  i 
in  his  solutions  of  each  a  degree  of  acumen  which 
appears  to  the  ordinary  apprehension  preternatural. 

His  results,  brought  about  by  the  very  soul  and  ^ 

*  By  permission  of  H.  S.  Stone  &  Co.  [ 

278 


1 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  279 

essence  of  method,  have,  in  truth,  the  whole  air  of 
intuition. 

The  faculty  of  re-solution  is  possibly  much  invigo¬ 
rated  by  mathematical  study,  and  especially  by  that 
highest  branch  of  it,  which,  unjustly,  and  merely  on 
account  of  its  retrograde  operations,  has  been  called, 
as  if  par  excellence,  analysis.  Yet  to  calculate  is  not 
in  itself  to  analyze.  A  chess-player,  for  example, 
does  the  one,  without  effort  at  the  other.  It  follows 
that  the  game  of  chess,  in  its  effects  upon  mental 
character,  is  greatly  misunderstood.  I  am  not  now 
writing  a  treatise,  but  simply  prefacing  a  somewhat 
peculiar  narrative  by  observations  very  much  at  ran¬ 
dom;  I  will,  therefore,  take  occasion  to  assert  that 
tbie  higher  powers  of  the  reflective  intellect  are  more 
decidedly  and  more  usefully  tasked  by  the  unostenta¬ 
tious  game  of  draughts  than  by  all  the  elaborate 
frivolity  of  chess.  In  this  latter,  where  the  pieces 
have  different  and  bizarre  motions,  with  various  and 
variable  values,  what  is  only  complex  is  mistaken  (a 
not  unusual  error)  for  what  is  profound.  The  atten¬ 
tion  is  here  called  powerfully  into  play.  If  it  flag  for 
an  instant,  an  oversight  is  committed,  resulting  in 
injury  or  defeat.  The  possible  moves  being  not  only 
manifold,  but  involute,  the  chances  of  such  oversights 


280  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 

are  multiplied ;  and  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  it  is  the  I 
more  concentrative  rather  than  the  more  acute  player 
who  conquers.  ^In  draughts,  on  the  contrary,  where 
the  moves  are  unique  and  have  but  little  varia¬ 
tion,  the  probabilities  of  inadvertence  are  diminished, 
and  the  mere  attention  being  left  comparatively  unem-  : 
ployed,  what  advantages  are  obtained  by  either  party 
are  obtained  by  superior  acumen.  To  be  less  ab¬ 
stract  :  Let  us  suppose  a  game  of  draughts  where  the 
pieces  are  reduced  to  four  kings,  and  where,  of  course,  ; 
no  oversight  is  to  be  expected.  It  is  obvious  that 
here  the  victory  can  be  decided  (the  players  being  at 
all  equal)  only  by  some  rechercM  movement,  the  result  ' 
of  some  strong  exertion  of  the  intellect.  ClDeprived  of  I 
ordinary  resources,  the  analyst  throws  himself  inAo  I 
the  spirit  of  his  opponent,  identifies  himself  therewith, 
and  not  unfrequently  sees  thus,  at  a  glance,  the  sole 
methods  (sometimes  indeed  absurdly  simple  ones) 
by  which  he  may  seduce  into  error  or  hurry  into 
miscalculatioiQ 

Whist  has  long  been  noted  for  its  influence  upon 
what  is  termed  the  calculating  power;  and  men  of  j 
the  highest  order  of  intellect  have  been  known  to  V'l 
take  an  apparently  unaccountable  delight  in  it,  while  S 
eschewing  chess  as  frivolous.  Beyond  doubt  there  • 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  281 


is  nothing  of  a  similar  nature  so  greatly  tasking 
the  faculty  of  analysis.  The  best  chess-player  in 
Christendom  may  be  little  more  than  the  best  player 
of  chess;  but  proficiency  in  whist  implies  capacity 
for  success  in  all  these  more  important  undertakings 
where  mind  struggles  with  mind.  W^hen  I  say  pro¬ 
ficiency,  I  mean  that  perfection  in  the  game  which 
includes  a  comprehension  of  all  the  sources  whence 
legitimate  advantage  may  be  derived.  These  are 
not  only  manifold,  but  multiform,  and  lie  frequently 
among  recesses  of  thought  altogether  inaccessible  to 
the  ordinary  understanding.  To  observe  attentively 
is  to  remember  distinctly  ;  and,  so  far,  the  concentra- 
tive  chess-player  will  do  very  well  at  whist;  while  the 
rules  of  Hoyle  (themselves  based  upon  the  mere 
mechanism  of  the  game)  are  sufficiently  and  generally 
comprehensible.  Thus  to  have  a  retentive  memory, 
and  to  proceed  by  “the  book,’’  are  points  commonly 
regarded  as  the  sum  total  of  good  playing.  But  it  is 
in  matters  beyond  the  limits  of  mere  rule  that  the 
skill  of  the  analyst  is  evinced.  He  makes,  in  silence, 
a  host  of  observations  and  inferences.  So,  perhaps, 
do  his  companions;  and  the  difference  in  the  extent 
of  the  information  obtained  lies,  not  so  much  in  the 
validity  of  the  inference,  as  in  the  quality  of  the 


282 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


observation.  The  necessary  knowledge  is  that  of 
what  to  observe.  Our  player  confines  himself  not  at 
all;  nor,  because  the  game  is  the  object,  does  he 
reject  deductions  from  things  external  to  the  game. 
He  examines  the  countenance  of  his  partner,  compar¬ 
ing  it  carefully  with  that  of  each  of  his  opponents. 
He  considers  the  mode  of  assorting  the  cards  in  each 
hand ;  often  counting  trump  by  trump,  and  honor  by 
honor,  through  the  glances  bestowed  by  their  holders 
upon  each.  He  notes  every  variation  of  face  as  the 
play  progresses,  gathering  a  fund  of  thought  from  the 
differences  in  the  expression  of  certainty,  of  surprise, 
of  triumph,  or  chagrin.  From  the  manner  of  gather¬ 
ing  up  a  trick  he  judges  whether  the  person  taking  it 
can  make  another  in  the  suit.  He  recognizes  what 
is  played  through  feint,  by  the  air  with  which  it  is 
thrown  upon  the  table.  A  casual  or  inadvertent 
word;  the  accidental  dropping  or  turning  of  a  card, 
with  the  accompanying  anxiety  or  carelessness  in 
regard  to  its  concealment ;  the  counting  of  the  tricks, 
with  the  order  of  their  arrangement ;  embarrassment, 
hesitation,  eagerness  or  trepidation  —  all  afford,  to 
his  apparently  intuitive  perception,  indications  of  the 
true  state  of  affairs.  The  first  two  or  three  rounds 
having  been  played,  he  is  in  full  possession  of  the 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  283 


consents  of  each  hand,  and  thenceforward  puts  down 
his  cards  with  as  absolute  a  precision  of  purpose  as 
if  the  rest  of  the  party  had  turned  outward  the  faces- 
0^1  their  own. 

The  analytical  power  should  not  be  confounded  with  ^ 
simple  ingenuity ;  for  while  the  analyst  is  necessarily 
ingenious,  the  ingenious  man  is  often  remarkably 
incapable  of  analysis.  The  constructive  or  combin¬ 
ing  power,  by  which  ingenuity  is  usually  manifested, 
and  to  which  the  phrenologists  (I  believe  erroneously) 
have  assigned  a  separate  organ,  supposing  it  a  primi¬ 
tive  faculty,  has  been  so  frequently  seen  in  those 
whose  intellect  bordered  otherwise  upon  idiocy,  as  to 
have  attracted  general  observation  among  writers  on 
morals.  Between  ingenuity  and  the  analytic  ability 
there  exists  a  difference  far  greater,  indeed,  than  that 
between  the  fancy  and  the  imagination,  but  of  a  char¬ 
acter  very  strictly  analogous.  It  will  be  found,  in 
fact,  that  the  ingenious  are  always  fanciful,  and  the 
truly  imaginative  never  otherwise  than  analytic. 

The  narrative  which  follows  will  appear  to  the 
reader  somewhat  in  the  light  of  a  commentary  upon 
the  propoo’tions  jUst  advanced. 

Residing  n  Paris  during  the  spring  and  part  of  the 
summer  of  — ,  I  there  became  acquainted  with  a 


284  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


Monsieur  C.  Auguste  Dupin.  This  young  gentle.man  ! 
was  of  an  excellent  —  indeed  of  an  illustrious  —  fhm-  *  J 
ily,  but,  by  a  variety  of  untoward  events,  had  been  're-  ( 
duced  to  such  poverty  that  the  energy  of  his  character 
succumbed  beneath  it,  and  he  ceased  to  bestir  himself 
in  the  world  or  to  care  for  the  retrieval  of  his  fortunes! 

By  courtesy  of  his  creditors,  there  still  remained  in 
his  possession  a  small  remnant  of  his  patrimony ;  and 
upon  the  income  arising  from  this  he  managed,  by 
means  of  a  rigorous  economy,  to  procure  the  neces¬ 
saries  of  life,  without  troubling  himself  about  its 
superfluities.  Books,  indeed,  were  his  sole  luxuries, 
and  in  Paris  these  are  easily  obtained. 

Our  first  meeting  was  at  an  obscure  library  in  the 
Eue  Montmartre,  where  the  accident  of  our  both 
being  in  search  of  the  same  very  rare  and  very  re-  ^  • 
markable  volume  brought  us  into  closer  communion. 

We  saw  each  other  again  and  again.  I  was  deeply'’^' 
interested  in  the  little  family  history  which^he  de¬ 
tailed  to  me  with  all  that  candor  which  a  Frenchman 
indulges  whenever  mere  self  is  the  theme.  I  was 
astonished,  too,  at  the  vast  extent  of  his  reading ;  and, 
above  all,  I  felt  my  soul  enkindled  within  me  by  the 
wild  fervor  and  the  vivid  freshness  of  his  'magination. 
Seeking  in  Paris  the  objects  I  then  sougit,  I  felt  that 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  285 


the  society  of  such  a  man  would  be  to  me  a  treasure 
beyond  price ;  and  this  feeling  I  frankly  confided  to 
him.  It  was  at  length  arranged  that  we  should  live 
together  during  my  stay  in  the  city;  and,  as  my 
worldly  circumstances  were  somewhat  less  embar¬ 
rassed  than  his  own,  I  was  permitted  to  be  at  the 
expense  of  renting,  and  furnishing  in  a  style  which 
suited  the  rather  fantastic  gloom  of  our  common 
temper,  a  time-eaten  and  grotesque  mansion,  long 
deserted,  through  superstitions  into  which  we  did 
not  inquire,  and  tottering  to  its  fall  in  a  retired  and 
desolate  portion  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain. 

Had  the  routine  of  our  life  at  this  place  been  known 
to  the  world,  we  should  have  been  regarded  as  mad¬ 
men —  although,  perhaps,  as  madmen  of  a  harmless 
nature.  Our  seclusion  was  perfect.  We  admitted  no 
visitors.  Indeed,  the  locality  of  our  retirement  had 
been  carefully  kept  a  secret  from  my  own  former 
associates ;  and  it  had  been  many  years  since  Dupin 
had  ceased  to  know  or  be  known  in  Paris.  We  existed 
within  ourselves  alone. 

It  was  a  freak  of  fancy  in  my  friend  (for  what  else 
shall  I  call  it  ?)  to  be  enamored  of  the  night  for  her 
own  sake;  and  into  this  bizarrerie,  as  into  all  his 
others,  I  quietly  fell;  giving  myself  up  to  his  wild 


L  u  A/C 

286  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 

whims  with  a  perfect  abandon.  The  sable  divinity 
would  not  herself  dwell  with  us  always ;  but  we  could 
counterfeit  her  presence.  At  the  first  dawn  of  the 
morning  we  closed  all  the  massy  shutters  of  our  old 
building;  lighted  a  couple  of  tapers  which,  strongly 
perfumed,  threw  out  only  the  ghastliest  and  feeblest 
of  rays.  By  the  aid  of  these  we  then  busied  our  souls 
in  dreams  —  reading,  writing,  or  conversing,  until 
warned  by  the  clock  of  the  advent  of  the  true  Dark¬ 
ness.  Then  we  sallied  forth  into  the  streets,  arm  and 
arm,  continuing  the  topics  of  the  day,  or  roaming  far 
and  wide  until  a  late  hour,  seeking,  amid  the  wild 
lights  and  shadows  of  the  populous  city,  that  infinity 
of  mental  excitement  which  quiet  observation  can 
afford. 

At  such  times  I  could  not  help  remarking  and  ad¬ 
miring  (although  from  his  rich  ideality  I  had  been 
prepared  to  expect  it)  a  peculiar  analytic  ability  in 
Dupin.  He  seemed,  too,  to  take  an  eager  delight  in 
its  exercise  —  if  not  exactly  in  its  display  —  and  did 
not  hesitate  to  confess  the  pleasure  thus  derived.  He 
boasted  to  me,  with  a  low  chuckling  laugh,  that  most 
men,  in  respect  to  himself,  wore  windows  in  their 
bosoms,  and  was  wont  to  follow  up  such  assertions  by 
direct  and  very  startling  proofs  of  his  intimate  knowl 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  287 

edge  of  my  own.  His  manner  at  these  moments  was 
frigid  and  abstract ;  his  eyes  were  vacant  in  expres¬ 
sion  ;  while  his  voice,  usually  a  rich  tenor,  rose  into  a 
treble  which  would  have  sounded  petulantly  but  for 
the  deliberateness  and  entire  distinctness  of  the  enun¬ 
ciation.  Observing  him  in  these  moods,  I  often  dwelt 
meditatively  upon  the  old  philosophy  of  the  Bi-Part 
Soul,  and  amused  myself  with  the  fancy  of  a  double 
Dupin  —  the  creative  and  the  resolvent. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  from  what  I  have  just  said 
that  I  am  detailing  any  mystery,  or  penning  any 
romance.  What  I  have  described  in  the  Frenchman 
was  merely  the  result  of  an  excited,  or  perhaps  of  a 
diseased,  intelligence.  But  of  the  character  of  his 
remarks  at  the  periods  in  question  an  example  will 
best  convey  the  idea.  •*" 

We  were  strolling  one  night  down  a  long  dirty  street, 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  Palais  Boyal.®  Being  both, 
apparently,  occupied  with  thought,  neither  of  us  had 
spoken  a  syllable  for  fifteen  minutes  at  least.  All  at 
once  Dupin  broke  forth  with  these  words  : 

“  He  is  a  very  little  fellow,  that’s  true,  and  would 
do  better  for  the  Thedtre  des  Varieth.” 

“  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  that,”  I  replied  unwit¬ 
tingly,  and  not  at  first  observing  (so  much  had  I  been 


288  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


absorbed  in  reflection)  the  extraordinary  manner  in  i 
which  the  speaker  had  chimed  in  with  my  meditations. 

In  an  instant  afterward  I  recollected  myself,  and  my 
astonishment  was  profound. 

Dupin,”  said  I,  gravely,  this  is  beyond  my  com¬ 
prehension.  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  I  am  | 
amazed,  and  can  scarcely  credit  my  senses.  How  was 
it  possible  you  should  know  I  was  thinking  of  —  ? 

Here  I  paused,  to  ascertain  beyond  a  doubt  whether 
he  really  knew  of  whom  I  thought. 

—  “  of  Chantilly,’’  said  he,  why  do  you  pause  ? 

You  were  remarking  to  yourself  that  his  diminutive 
figure  unfitted  him  for  tragedy.” 

This  was  precisely  what  had  formed  the  subject  of 
my  reflections.  Chantilly  was  a  quondam  cobbler  of 
the  Rue  St.  Denis,  who,  becoming  stage-mad,  had 
attempted  the  role  of  Xerxes,  in  Crebillon’s  tragedy  ^ 

so  called,  and  been  notoriously  pasquinadod  for  his  1 

pains.  - - — ^  ' 

“  Tell  me,  for  Heaven’s  sake,”  I  exclaimed,  ‘‘  the  '  ■ 

method  —  if  method  there  is  —  by  which  you  have 

been  enabled  to  fathom  my  soul  in  this  matter.”  In  i 

fact,  I  was  even  more  startled  than  I  would  have  been 
willing  to  express. 

It  was  the  fruiterer,”  replied  my  friend,  who  J 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  289 


brought  you  to  the  conclusion  that  the  mender  of  soles 
was  not  of  sufficient  height  for  Xerxes  et  id  genus 
omne.” 

“  The  fruiterer !  —  you  astonish  me  —  I  know  no 
fruiterer  whomsoever.’’ 

“  The  man  who  ran  up  against  you  as  we  entered 
the  street  —  it  may  have  been  fifteen  minutes  ago.” 

I  now  remembered  that,  in  fact,  a  fruiterer,  carrying 
upon  his  head  a  large  basket  of  apples,  had  nearly 
thrown  me  down,  by  accident,  as  we  passed  from  the 

j>ue  C - into  the  thoroughfare  where  we  stood ;  but 

what  this  had  to  do  with  Chantilly  I  could  not  pos¬ 
sibly  understand. 

There  was  not  a  particle  of  charlatanerie  about 
Dupin.  “I  will  explain,”  he  said,  ^‘and,  that  you 
may  comprehend  all  clearly,  we  will  first  retrace  the 
course  of  your  meditations,  from  the  moment  in  which 
I  spoke  to  you  until  that  of  the  rencontre  with  the 
fruiterer  in  question.  The  larger  links  of  the  chain 
run  thus  —  Chantilly,  Orion,  Dr.  Nichols,  Epicurus, 
Stereotomy,  the  street  stones,  the  fruiterer.” 

There  are  few  persons  who  have  not,  at  some  period 
of  their  lives,  amused  themselves  in  retracing  the 
steps  by  which  particular  conclusions  of  their  own 
minds  have  been  attained.  The  occupation  is  often 
u 


290  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 

full  of  interest ;  and  he  who  attempts  it  far  the  first 
time  is  astonished  by  the  apparently  illimitable  dis¬ 
tance  and  incoherence  between  the  starting-point  and 
the  goal.  What,  then,  must  have  been  my  amaze¬ 
ment  when  I  heard  the  Frenchman  speak  what  he 
had  just  spoken,  and  when  I  could  not  help  acknowl¬ 
edging  that  he  had  spoken  the  truth  ?  He  continued  : 

^^We  had  been  talking  of  horses,  if  I  remember 

aright,  just  before  leaving  the  Rue  C - .  This  was 

the  last  subject  w'e  discussed.  As  we  crossed  into 
this  street,  a  fruiterer,  with  a  large  basket  upon  his 
head,  brushing  quickly  past  us,  thrust  you  upon  a 
pile  of  paving-stones  collected  at  a  spot  where  the 
causeway  is  undergoing  repair.  You  stepped  upon 
one  of  the  loose  fragments,  slipped,  slightly  strained 
your  ankle,  appeared  vexed  or  sulky,  muttered  a  few 
words,  turned  to  look  at  the  pile,  and  then  proceeded 
in  silence.  I  was  not  particularly  attentive  to  what 
you  did ;  but  observation  has  become  with  me,  of  late, 
a  species  of  necessity. 

“  You  kept  your  eyes  upon  the  ground  —  glancing, 
with  a  petulant  expression,  at  the  holes  and  ruts  in 
the  pavement  (so  that  I  saw  you  were  still  thinking  of 
the  stones),  until  we  reached  the  little  alley  called 
Lamartine,  which  has  been  paved,  by  way  of  experi- 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  291 

ment,  with  the  overlapping  and  riveted  blocks.  Here 
your  countenance  brightened  up,  and,  perceiving  your 
lips  move,  I  could  not  doubt  that  you  murmured  the 
word  '  stereotomy,’  a  term  ivery  affectedly  applied  to 
this  species  of  pavement.  knew  that  you  could  not 
say  to  yourself  ^  stereotomy  ’  without  being  brought 
to  think  of  atomies,  and  thus  of  the  theories  of  Epi¬ 
curus  j  and  since,  when  we  discussed  this  subject  not 
very  long  ago,  I  mentioned  to  you  how  singularly,  yet 
with  how  little  notice,  the  vague  guesses  of  that  noble 
Greek  had  met  with  confirmation  in  the  late  nebular 
cosmogony,  I  felt  that  you  could  not  avoid  casting 
your  eyes  upward  to  the  great  nebula  in  Orion,  and 
I  certainly  expected  that  you  would  do  so.  You  did 
look  up  ^  and  I  was  now  assured  that  I  had  correctly 
followed  your  steps.  But  in  that  bitter  tirade  upon 
Chantilly,  which  appeared  in  yesterday’s  Mus^e,  the 
satirist,  making  some  disgraceful  allusions  to  the 
cobbler’s  change  of  name  upon  assuming  the  buskin, 
quoted  a  Latin  line  about  which  we  have  often  con¬ 
versed.  I  mean  the  line 

“  ‘  Perdidit  antiquum  litera  prima  sonum.’ 

I  had  told  you  that  this  was  in  reference  to  Orion, 
formerly  written  XJrionj  and,  from  certain  pungencies 


292  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


connected  with  this  explanation,  I  was  aware  that 
you  could  not  have  forgotten  it.  It  was  clear,  there¬ 
fore,  that  you  would  not  fail  to  combine  the  two  ideas 
of  Orion  and  Chantilly.  That  you  did  combine  them 
I  saw  by  the  character  of  the  smile  which  passed  over 
your  lips.  You  thought  of  the  poor  cobbler’s  immola¬ 
tion.  So  far,  you  had  been  stooping  in  your  gait ;  but 
now  I  saw  you  draw  yourself  up  to  your  full  height. 
I  was  then  sure  that  3^ou  reflected  upon  the  diminutive 
flgure  of  Chantilly.  At  this  point  I  interrupted  your 
meditations  to  remark  that  as,  in  fact,  he  was  a  very 
little  fellow  —  that  Chantilly  —  he  would  do  better  at 
the  TMdtre  des  Varietes.”  . 

Not  long  after  this,  we  were  looking  over  an  even¬ 
ing  edition  of  the  Gazette  des  Trihunaux,  when  the 
following  paragraphs  arrested  our  attention : 

“Extraordinary  Murders. — This  morning,  about  three 
o’clock,  the  inhabitants  of  the  Quartier  St.  Roch  were  aroused 
from  sleep  by  a  succession  of  terrific  shrieks,  issuing  apparently 
from  the  fourth  story  of  a  house  in  the  Rue  Morgue,  known  to 
be  in  the  sole  occupancy  of  one  Madame  L’Espanaye,  and  her 
daughter,  Mademoiselle  Camille  L’Espanaye.  After  some  d6. 
lay,  occasioned  by  a  fruitless  attempt  to  procure  admission  in 
the  usual  manner,  the  gateway  was  broken  in  with  a  crowbar,' 
and  eight  or  ten  of  the  neighbors  entered,  accompanied  by  two 
gendarmes.  By  this  time  the  cries  had  ceased ;  but,  as  the 


i 


I  A 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  293 


party  rushed  up  the  first  flight  of  stairs,  two  or  more  rough 
voices,  in  angry  contention,  were  distinguished,  and  seemed  to 
proceed  from  the  upper  part  of  the  house.  As  the  second  land¬ 
ing  was  reached,  these  sounds  also  had  ceased,  and  everything 
remained  perfectly  quiet.  The  party  spread  themselves,  and 
hurried  from  room  to  room.  Upon  arriving  at  a  large  back 
chamber  in  the  fourth  story  (the  door  of  which,  being  found 
locked,  with  the  key  inside,  was  forced  open),  a  spectacle  pre¬ 
sented  itself  which  struck  every  one  present  not  less  with  horror 
than  with  astonishment. 

“The  apartment  was  in  the  wildest  disorder  —  the  furniture 
broken  and  thrown  about  in  all  directions.  There  was  only  one 
bedstead  ;  and  from  this  the  bed  had  been  removed,  and  thrown 
into  the  middle  of  the  floor.  On  a  chair  lay  a  razor,  besmeared 
with  blood.  On  the  hearth  were  two  or  three  long  and  thick 
tresses  of  gray  human  hair,  also  dabbled  in  blood,  and  seeming 
to  have  been  pulled  out  by  the  roots.  Upon  the  floor  were  found 
four  Napoleons,  an  ear-ring  of  topaz,  three  large  silver  spoons, 
three  small  of  mHal  d' Alger,  and  two  bags,  containing  nearly 
four  thousand  francs  in  gold.  The  drawers  of  a  bureau,  which 
stood  in  one  corner,  were  open,  and  had  been,  apparently,  rifled, 
although  many  articles  still  remained  in  them.  A  small  iron 
safe  was  discovered  under  the  bed  (not  under  the  bedstead).  It 
was  open,  with  the  key  still  in  the  door.  It  had  no  contents 
beyond  a  few  old  letters,  and  other  papers  of  little  consequence. 

“  Of  Madame  L’Espanaye  no  traces  were  here  seen  ;  but  an 
unusukl  quantity  of  soot  being  observed  in  the  fireplace,  a 
search  was  made  in  the  chimney,  and  (horrible  to  relate  !)  the 
corpse  of  the  daughter,  head  downward,  was  dragged  there- 


294 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


from  ;  it  having  been  thus  forced  up  the  narrow  aperture  for  a 
considerable  distance.  The  body  was  quite  warm.  Upon  exam¬ 
ining  it,  many  excoriations  were  perceived,  no  doubt  occasioned 
by  the  violence  with  which  it  had  been  thrust  up  and  disen¬ 
gaged.  Upon  the  face  were  many  severe  scratches,  and  upon 
the  throat,  dark  bruises,  and  deep  indentations  of  finger-nails, 
as  if  the  deceased  had  been  throttled  to  death. 

“After  a  thorough  investigation  of  every  portion  of  the 
house,  without  farther  discovery,  the  party  made  its  way  into 
a  small  paved  yard  in  the  rear  of  the  building,  where  lay 
the  corpse  of  the  old  lady,  with  her  throat  so  entirely  cut  that, 
upon  an  attempt  to  raise  her,  the  head  fell  off.  The  body,  as 
well  as  the  head,  was  fearfully  mutilated  —  the  former  so  much 
so  as  scarcely  to  retain  any  semblance  of  humanity. 

“  To  this  horrible  mystery  there  is  not  as  yet,  we  believe,  the 
slightest  clew.” 

The  next  day^s  paper  had  these  additional  particu¬ 
lars. 

“  The  Tragedy  in  the  Bue  Morgue.  Many  individuals  have 
been  examined  in  relation  to  this  most  extraordinary  and 
frightful  affair  ”  [the  word  affaire ''  has  not  yet,  in  France, 
that  levity  of  import  which  it  conveys  with  us],  “  but  nothing 
whatever  has  transpired  to  throw  light  upon  it.  We  give  below 
all  the  material  testimony  elicited. 

'‘^Pauline  Duhourg.,  laundress,  deposes  that  she  has  known 
both  the  deceased  for  three  years,  having  washed  for  them  dur¬ 
ing  that  period.  The  old  lady  and  her  daughter  seemed  on 
good  terms  —  very  affectionate  towards  each  other.  They  were 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  295 

excellent  pay.  Could  not  speak  in  regard  to  their  mode  or 
I  means  of  living.  Believed  that  Madame  L.  told  fortunes  for  a 
living.  Was  reputed  to  have  money  put  by.  Never  met  any 
persons  in  the  house  when  she  called  for  the  clothes  or  took 
them  home.  Was  sure  that  they  had  no  servant  in  employ. 
There  appeared  to  be  no  furniture  in  any  part  of  the  building 
except  in  the  fourth  story. 

“  Pierre  Moreau,  tobacconist,  deposes  that  he  has  been  in  the 
habit  of  selling  small  quantities  of  tobacco  and  snuff  to  Madame 
L’Espanaye  for  nearly  four  years.  Was  born  in  the  neighbor¬ 
hood,  and  has  always  resided  there.  The  deceased  and  her 
daughter  had  occupied  the  house  in  which  the  corpses  were 
found,  for  more  than  six  years.  It  was  formerly  occupied  by 
a  jeweller,  who  underlet  the  upper  rooms  to  various  persons. 
The  hou^  was  the  property  of  Madame  L.  She  became  dis¬ 
satisfied  with  the  abuse  of  the  premises  by  her  tenant,  and 
moved  into  them  herself,  refusing  to  let  any  portion.  The  old 
lady  was  childish.  Witness  had  seen  the  daughter  some  five  or 
six  times  during  the  six  years.  The  two  lived  an  exceedingly 
retired  life  —  were  reputed  to  have  money.  Had  heard  it  said 
among  the  neighbors  that  Madame  L.  told  fortunes.  Did  not 
believe  it.  Had  never  seen  any  person  enter  the  door  except 
the  old  lady  and  her  daughter,  a  porter  once  or  twice,  and  a 
physician  some  eight  or  ten  times. 

“  Many  other  persons,  neighbors,  gave  evidence  to  the  same 
effect.  No  one  was  spoken  of  as  frequenting  the  house.  It 
was  not  known  whether  there  were  any  living  connections  of 
Madame  L.  and  her  daughter.  The  shutters  of  the  front  win¬ 
dows  were  seldom  opened.  Those  in  the  rear  were  always 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


closed,  with  the  exception  of  the  large  back  room,  fourth  story. 
The  house  was  a  good  house  —  not  very  old.  ! 

Isidore  Mus'et,  gendarme,  deposes  that  he  was  called  to  '' 
the  house  about  three  o’clock  in  the  morning,  and  found  some  ! 
twenty  or  thirty  persons  at  the  gateway,  endeavoring  to  gain  \ 
admittance.  Forced  it  open,  at  length,  with  a  bayonet  — not  j 
with  a  crowbar.  Had  but  little  difficulty  in  getting  it  open,  on  | 
account  of  its  being  a  double  or  folding  gate,  and  bolted  neither  ^ 
at  bottom  nor  top.  The  shrieks  were  continued  until  the  gate 
was  forced— and  then  suddenly  ceased.  They  seemed  to  be  ^ 
screams  of  some  person  (or  persons)  in  great  agony  — were  \ 
loud  and  drawn  out,  not  short  and  quick.  Witness  led  the  ^ 
way  upstairs.  Upon  reaching  the  first  landing,  heard  two 
voices  in  loud  and  angry  contention  :  the  one  a  gruff  voice,  the 
othermuchshriller  — a  very  strange  voice.  Could  distinguish 
some  words  of  the  former,  which  was  that  of  a  Frenchman.  ! 
Was  positive  that  it  was  not  a  woman’s  voice.  Could  distin¬ 
guish  the  words  ‘sacre’  and  ^  diable.^  The  shrill  voice  was 
that  of  a  foreigner.  Could  not  be  sure  whether  it  was  the  ' 
voice  of  a  man  or  of  a  woman.  Could  not  make  out  what  was 
said,  but  believed  the  language  to  be  Spanish.  The  state  of  the  - 

room^  and  of  the  bodies  was  described  by  this  witness  as  we  i 
described  them  yesterday.  ’ 

Henri  Duval,  a  neighbor,  and  by  trade  a  silversmith,  de-  \ 
posed  that  he  was  one  of  the  party  who  first  entered  the  house.  . 
Corroborates  the  testimony  of  Mus6t  in  general.  As  soon  as  ’ 
they  forced  an  entrance,  they  reclosed  the  door,  to  keep  out 
the  crowd,  which  collected  very  fast,  notwithstanding  the  late¬ 
ness  of  the  hour.  The  shrill  voice,  this  witness  thinks,  was 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


297 


^  that  of  an  Italian.  Was  certain  it  was  not  French.  Could  not 
be  sure  that  it  was  a  man’s  voice.  It  might  have  been  a 
woman’s.  Was  not  acquainted  with  the  Italian  language. 
Could  not  distinguish  the  words,  but  was  convinced,  by  the 
intonation,  that  the  speaker  was  an  Italian.  Knew  Madame 
jL.  and  her  daughter.  Had  conversed  with  both  frequently. 
[Was  sure  that  the  shrill  voice  was  not  that  of  either  of  the 
i  deceased. 

“ -  Odenheimer^  restaurateur.  This  witness  volunteered 

his  testimony.  Not  speaking  French,  was  examined  through 
an  interpreter.  Is  a  native  of  Amsterdam.  Was  passing  the 
I  house  at  the  time  of  the  shrieks.  They  lasted  for  several  min¬ 
utes — probably  ten.  They  were  long  and  loud  —  very  awful 
.  and  distressing.-  Was  one  of  those  who  entered  the  building. 
'Corroborated  the  previous  evidence  in  every  respect  but  one. 
Was  sure  that  the  shrill  voice  was  that  of  a  man  —  of  a  French- 
iman.  Could  not  distinguish  the  words  uttered.  They  were 
loud  and  quick  —  unequal  —  spoken  apparently  in  fear  as  well 
I  as  in  anger.  The  voice  was  harsh  —  not  so  much  shrill  as 
harsh.  Could  not  call  it  a  shrill  voice.  The  gruff  voice  said 
^repeatedly,  ‘  sacre,’  ^  diable,'  and  once  ‘  mon  Dieu.' 

Jules  Mignaud,  banker,  of  the  firm  of  Mignaud  et  Fils, 
Rue  Deloraine.  Is  the  elder  Mignaud.  Madame  L’Espanaye 
had  some  property.  Had  opened  an  account  with  his  banking 

1  house  in  the  spring  of  the  year -  (eight  years  previously). 

■Made  frequent  deposits  in  small  sums.  Had  checked  for  noth¬ 
ing  until  the  third  day  before  her  death,  when  she  took  out  in 
[person  the  sum  of  4000  francs.  This  sum  was  paid  in  gold, 
and  a  clerk  sent  home  with  the  money. 


298  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


“  Adolphe  Le  Bon^  clerk  to  Mignaud  et  Fils,  deposes  that  on 
the  day  in  question,  about  noon,  he  accompanied  Madame 
L’Espanaye  to  her  residence  with  the  4000  francs,  put  up  in 
two  bags.  Upon  the  door  being  opened,  Mademoiselle  L.  ap¬ 
peared  and  took  from  his  hands  one  of  the  bags,  while  the  old 
lady  relieved  him  of  the  other.  He  then  bowed  and  departed. 
Did  not  see  any  person  in  the  street  at  the  time.  Ht  is  a  by¬ 
street  —  very  lonely. 

“  William  Bird,  tailor,  deposes  that  he  was  one  of  the  party 
who  entered  the  house.  Is  an  Englishman.  Has  lived  in  Paris 
two  years.  Was  one  of  the  first  to  ascend  the  stairs:  Heard 
the  voices  in  contention.  The  gruff  voice  was  that  of  a  French¬ 
man.  Could  make  out  several  words,  but  cannot  now  remember 
all.  Heard  distinctly  ‘sacre’  and  ‘mo/i  Dieu.^  There  was  a 
sound  at  the  moment  as  if  of  several  persons  struggling  —  a 
scraping  and  scuffling  sound.  The  shrill  voice  was  very  loud  — 
louder  than  the  gruff  one.  Is  sure  that  it  was  not  the  voice  of 
an  Englishman.  Appeared  to  be  that  of  a  German.  Might 
have  been  a  woman’s  voice.  Does  not  understand  German. 

“Four  of  the  above-named  witnesses,  being  recalled,  de¬ 
posed  that  the  door  of  the  chamber  in  which  was  found  the 
body  of  Mademoiselle  L.  was  locked  on  the  inside  when  the 
party  reached  it.  Everything  was  perfectly  silent  —  no  groans 
or  noises  of  any  kind.  Upon  forcing  the  door  no  person  was 
seen.  The  windows,  both  of  the  back  and  front  room,  were 
down  and  firmly  fastened  from  within.  A  door  between  the 
two  rooms  was  closed,  but  not  locked.  The  door  leading  from  ■ 
the  front  room  into  the  passage  was  locked,  with  the  key  on  the 
inside.  A  small  room  in  the  front  of  the  house,  on  the  fourth 


THE  MURDERS  IX  THE  RUE  MORGUE  299 


story,  at  the  head  of  the  passage,  was  open,  the  door  being  ajar. 
This  room  was  crowded  with  old  beds,  boxes,  and  so  forth. 
These  were  carefully  removed  and  searched.  There  was  not  an 
inch  of  any  portion  of  the  house  which  was  not  carefully  searched. 
Sweeps  were  sent  up  and  down  the  chimneys.  The  house  was 
a  four-story  one,  with  garrets  (mansardes).  A  trap-door  on 
the  roof  was  nailed  down  very  securely  —  did  not  appear  to  have 
been  opened  for  years.  The  time  elapsing  between  the  hearing 
of  the  voices  in  contention  and  the  breaking  open  of  the  room 
door,  was  variously  stated  by  the  witnesses.  Some  made  it  as 
short  as  three  minutes  —  some  as  long  as  five.  The  door  was 
opened  with  difficulty. 

Alfonzo  Garcio,  undertaker,  deposes  that  he  resides  in  the 
Kue  Morgue.  Is  a  native  of  Spain.  Was  one  of  the  party  who 
entered  the  house.  Did  not  proceed  upstairs.  Is  nervous,  and 
was  apprehensive  of  the  consequences  of  agitation.  Heard  the 
voices  in  contention.  The  gruff  voice  was  that  of  a  Frenchman. 
Could  not  distinguish  what  was  said.  The  shrill  voice  was  that 
of  an  Englishman  —  is  sure  of  this.  Does  not  understand  the 
English  language,  but  judges  by  the  intonation. 

Alberto  Montani,  confectioner,  deposes  that  he  was  among 
the  first  to  ascend  the  stairs.  Heard  the  voices  in  question. 
The  gruff  voice  was  that  of  a  Frenchman.  Distinguished  sev¬ 
eral  words.  The  speaker  appeared  to  be  expostulating.  Could 
not  make  out  the  words  of  the  shrill  voice.  Spoke  quick  and 
unevenly.  Thinks  it  the  voice  of  a  Kussian.  Corroborates  the 
general  testimony.  Is  an  Italian.  Never  conversed  with  a  native 
of  Russia. 

“  Several  witnesses,  recalled,  here  testified  that  the  chimneys 


300  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 

of  all  the  rooms  on  the  fourth  story  were  too  narrow  to  admit 
the  passage  of  a  human  being.  By  ‘  sweeps  ’  were  meant  cylin¬ 
drical  sweeping-brushes,  such  as  are  employed  by  those  who 
clean  chimneys.  These  brushes  were  passed  up  and  down  every 
flue  in  the  house.  There  is  no  back  passage  by  which  any  one 
could  have  descended  while  the  party  proceeded  upstairs.  The 
body  of  Mademoiselle  L’Espanaye  was  so  firmly  wedged  in  the 
chimney  that  it  could  not  be  got  down  until  four  or  five  of  the 
party  united  their  strength. 

“  Paul  Dumas,  physician,  deposes  that  he  was  called  to  view 
the  bodies  about  daybreak.  They  were  both  then  lying  on  the 
sacking  of  the  bedstead  in  the  chamber  where  Mademoiselle  L. 
was  found.  The  corpse  of  the  young  lady  was  much  bruised 
and  excoriated.  The  fact  that  it  had  been  thrust  up  the  chim¬ 
ney  would  sufficiently  account  for  these  appearances.  The 
throat  was  greatly  chafed.  There  were  several  deep  scratches 
just  below  the  chin,  together  with  a  series  of  livid  spots  which 
were  evidently  the  impression  of  fingers.  The  face  was  fearfully 
discolored,  and  the  eyeballs  protruded.  The  tongue  had  been 
partially  bitten  through.  A  large  bruise  was  discovered  upon 
the  pit  of  the  stomach,  produced,  apparently,  by  the  pressure 
of  a  knee.  In  the  opinion  of  M.  Dumas,  Mademoiselle  L’Es¬ 
panaye  had  been  throttled  to  death  by  some  person  or  persons 
unknown.  The  corpse  of  the  mother  was  horribly  mutilated. 
All  the  bones  of  the  right  leg  and  arm  were  more  or  less  shat¬ 
tered.  The  left  tibia  much  splintered,  as  well  as  all  the  ribs  of 
the  left  side.  Whole  body  dreadfully  bruised  and  discolored. 
It  was  not  possible  to  say  how  the  injuries  had  been  inflicted. 
A  heavy  club  of  wood,  or  a  broad  bar  of  iron  —  a  chair  —  any 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


large,  heavy,  and  obtuse  weapon  would  have  produced  such  re¬ 
sults,  if  wielded  by  the  hands  of  a  very  powerful  man.  No 
woman  could  have  inflicted  the  blows  with  any  weapon.  The 
head  of  the  deceased,  when  seen  by  witness,  was  entirely  sepa¬ 
rated  from  the  body,  and  was  also  greatly  shattered.  The  throat 
had  evidently  been  cut  with  some  very  sharp  instrument —  prob¬ 
ably  with  a  razor. 

'■‘■Alexandre  J^tienne,  surgeon,  was  called  with  M.  Dumas  to 
view  the  bodies.  Corroborated  the  testimony,  and  the  opinions 
of  M.  Dumas. 

“  Nothing  farther  of  importance  was  elicited,  although  sev¬ 
eral  other  persons  were  examined.  A  murder  so  mysterious, 
and  so  perplexing  in  all  its  particulars,  was  never  before  com¬ 
mitted  in  Paris  —  if  indeed  a  murder  has  been  committed  at 
all.  The  police  are  entirely  at  fault  —  an  unusual  occurrence  in 
affairs  of  this  nature.  There  is  not,  however,  the  shadow  of  a 
clew  apparent.” 


The  evening  edition  of  the  paper  stated  that  the 
greatest  excitement  still  continued  in  the  Quartier  St. 
Roch  —  that  the  premises  in  question  had  been  care¬ 
fully  re-searched,  and  fresh  examinations  of  witnesses 
instituted,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  A  postscript,  how¬ 
ever,  mentioned  that  Adolphe  Le  Bon  had  been 
arrested  and  imprisoned,  although  nothing  appeared 
to  criminate  him,  beyond  the  facts  already  detailed. 

Dupin  seemed  singularly  interested  in  the  progress 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


of  this  affair  —  at  least  so  I  judged  from  his  manner, 
for  he  made  no  comments.  It  was  only  after  the 
announcement  that  Le  Bon  had  been  imprisoned,  that 
he  asked  me  my  opinion  respecting  the  murders. 

'  I  could  merely  agree  with  all  Paris  in  considering 
them  an  insoluble  mystery.  I  saw  no  means  by  which 
it  would  be  possible  to  trace  the  murderer. 

We  must  not  judge  of  the  means,”  said  Dupin, 
by  this  shell  of  an  examination.  The  Parisian 
police,  so  much  extolled  for  acumen,  are  cunning,  but 
no  more.  There  is  no  method  in  their  proceedings, 
beyond  the  method  of  the  moment.  They  make  a  vast 
parade  of  measures  ;  but,  not  unfrequently,  these  are 
so  ill  adapted  to  the  objects  proposed,  as  to  put  us  in 
mind  of  Monsieur  Jourdain’s  calling  for  his  rohe  de 
chambre — pour  mieux  entendre  la  musique.  The  re¬ 
sults  attained  by  them  are  not  unfrequently  surprising, 
but,  for  the  most  part,  are  brought  about  by  simple 
diligence  and  activity.  When  these  qualities  are  un¬ 
availing,  their  schemes  fail.  Vidocq,  for  example, 
was  a  good  guesser,  and  a  persevering  man.  But, 
without  educated  thought,  he  erred  continually  by  the 
very  intensity  of  his  investigations.  He  impaired  his 
vision  by  holding  the  object  too  close.  He  might  see, 
perhaps,  one  or  two  points  with  unusual  clearness,  but 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  303 

in  so  doing  he  necessarily  lost  sight  of  the  matter  as 
a  whole.  Thus  there  is  such  a  thing  as  beinsf  too 
profound.  Truth  is  not  always  in  a  well.  In  fact,  as 
regards  the  more  important  knowledge,.!  do  believe 
that  she  is  invariably  superficial.  The  depth  lies 
in  the  valleys  where  we  seek  her,  and  not  upon  the 
mountain-tops  where  she  is  found.  The  modes  and 
sources  of  this  kind  of  error  are  well  typified  in  the< 
contemplation  of  the  heavenly  bodies.  To  look  at  a 
star  by  glances  —  to  view  it  in  a  sidelong  way,  by 
turning  toward  it  the  exterior  portions  of  the  retina 
(more  susceptible  of  feeble  impressions  of  light  than 
the  interior),  is  to  behold  the  star  distinctly  —  is  to 
have  the  best  appreciation  of  its  lustre :  a  lustre  which 
grows  dim  just  in  proportion  as  we  turn  our  vision 
fully  upon  it.  A  greater  number  of  rays  actually  fall 
upon  the  eye  in  the  latter  case,  but,  in  the  former, 
there  is  the  more  refined  capacity  for  comprehension. 
By  undue  profundity  we  perplex  and  enfeeble  thought ; 
and  it  is  possible  to  make  even  Venus  herself  vanish 
from  the  firmament  by  a  scrutiny  too  sustained,  too 
concentrated,  or  too  direct. 

“As  for  these  murders,  let  us  enter  into  some 
examinations  for  ourselves,  before  we  make  up  an 
opinion  respecting  them.  An  inquiry  will  afford  us 


304  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


amusement”  [I  thought  this  an  odd  term,  so  applied, 
but  said  nothing],  ‘‘and,  besides,  Le  Bon  once  rendered 
me  a  service  for  which  I  am  not  ungrateful.  We  will 
go  and  see  the  premises  with  our  own  eyes.  I  know 
G - ,  the  Prefect  of  Police,  and  shall  have  no  diffi¬ 

culty  in  obtaining  the  necessary  permission.” 

The  permission  was  obtained,  and  we  proceeded  at 
once  to  the  Rue  Morgue.  This  is  one  of  those  miser¬ 
able  thoroughfares  which  intervene  between  the  Rue 
Richelieu  and  the  Rue  St.  Roch.  It  was  late  in  the 
afternoon  when  we  reached  it,  as  this  quarter  is  at  a 
great  distance  from  that  in  which  we  resided.  The 
house  was  readily  found;  for  there  were  still  many 
persons  gazing  up  at  the  closed  shutters,  with  an  ob¬ 
jectless  curiosity,  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  way. 
It  was  an  ordinary  Parisian  house,  with  a  gateway,  on 
one  side  of  which  was  a  glazed  watch-box,  with  a  slid¬ 
ing  panel  in  the  window,  indicating  a  loge  de  concierge. 
Before  going  in  we  walked  up  the  street,  turned  down 
an  alley,  and  then,  again  turning,  passed  in  the  rear  of 
the  building  —  Dupin,  meanwhile,  examining  the  whole 
neighborhood,  as  well  as  the  house,  with  a  minuteness 
of  attention  for  which  I  could  ^ee  no  possible  object. 

Retracing  our  steps,  we  came  again  to  the  front  of 
the  dwelling,  rang,  and,  having  shown  our  credentials, 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


305 


were  admitted  by  the  agents  in  charge.  We  went 
upstairs  —  into  the  chamber  where  the  body  of 
Mademoiselle  L’Espanaye  had  been  found,  and  where 
both  the  deceased  still  lay.  The  disorders  of  the 
room  had,  as  usual,  been  suffered  to  exist.  I  saw 
nothing  beyond  what  had  been  stated  in  the  Gazette 
des  Trihunaux.  Dupin  scrutinized  everything,  not 
excepting  the  bodies  of  the  victims.  We  then  went 
into  the  other  rooms,  and  into  the  yard ;  a  gendarme 
accompanying  us  throughout.  The  examination  occu¬ 
pied  us  until  dark,  when  we  took  our  departure.  On 
our  way  home  my  companion  stepped  in  for  a  moment 
at  the  office  of  one  of  the  daily  papers. 

I  have  said  that  the  whims  of  my  friend  were  mani¬ 
fold,  and  that  Je  les  mhiagais :  —  for  this  phrase  there 
is  no  English  equivalent.  It  was  his  humor,  now,  to 
decline  all  conversation  on  the  subject  of  the  murder, 
until  about  noon  the  next  day.  He  then  asked  me, 
suddenly,  if  I  had  observed  anything  peculiar  at  the 
scene  of  the  atrocity. 

There  was  something  in  his  manner  of  emphasizing 
the  word  ‘^peculiar,”  which  caused  me  to  shudder, 
without  knowing  why. 

‘‘No,  nothing  peculiar I  said;  “nothing  more,  at 
least,  than  we  both  saw  stated  in  the  paper,’’ 


306 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


The  Gazette, he  replied,  ‘‘has  not  entered,  I  fear, 
into  the  unusual  horror  of  the  thing.  But  dismiss 
the  idle  opinions  of  this  print.  It  appears  to  me  that 
this  mystery  is  considered  insoluble,  for  the  very  rea¬ 
son  which  should  cause  it  to  be  regarded  as  easy  of 
solution  —  I  mean,  for  the  outr^  character  of  its  fea¬ 
tures.  The  police  are  confounded  ’  by  the  seeming 
absence  of  motive :  not  for  the  murder  itself,  but  for 
the  atrocity  of  the  murder.  They  are  puzzled,  too,  by 
the  seeming  impossibility  of  reconciling  the  voices 
heard  in  contention  with  the  facts  that  no  one  was 
discovered  upstairs  but  the  assassinated  Mademoiselle 
X’Espanaye,  and  that  there  were  no  means  of  egress 
without  the  notice  of  the  party  ascending.  The  wild 
disorder  of  the  room ;  the  corpse  thrust,  with  the  head 
downward,  up  the  chimney ;  the  frightful  mutilation 
of  the  body  of  the  old  lady ;  these  considerations,  with 
those  just  mentioned,  and  others  which  I  need  not 
mention,  have  sufficed  to  paralyze  the  powers,  by  put¬ 
ting  completely  at  fault  the  boasted  acumen,  of  the 
government  agents.  They  have  fallen  into  the  gross 
but  common  error  of  confounding  the  unusual  with 
the  abstruse.  But  it  is  by  these  deviations  from  the 
plane  of  the  ordinary  that  reason  feels  its  way,  if  at 
all,  in  its  search  for  the  true.  In  investigations  such 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  307 

as  we  are  now  pursuing,  it  should  not  be  so  much 
asked  ^  what  has  occurred,’  as  ‘  what  has  occurred  that 
has  never  occurred  before.’  In  fact,  the  facility  with 
which  I  shall  arrive,  or  have  arrived,  at  the  solution 
of  this  mystery  is  in  the  direct  ratio  of  its  apparent 
insolubility  in  the  eyes  of  the  police.” 

I  stared  at  the  speaker  in  mute  astonishment. 

I  am  now  awaiting,”  continued  he,  looking  toward 
the  door  of  our  apartment  —  1  am  now  awaiting  a 
person  who,  although  perhaps  not  the  perpetrator  of 
these  butcheries,  must  have  been  in  some  measure 
implicated  in  their  perpetration.  Of  the  worst  portion 
of  the  crimes  committed  it  is  probable  that  he  is  inno¬ 
cent.  I  hope  that  I  am  right  in  this  supposition ;  for 
upon  it  I  build  my  expectation  of  reading  the  entire 
riddle.  I  look  for  the  man  here  —  in  this  room  — 
every  moment.  It  is  true  that  he  may  not  arrive  ;  but 
the  probability  is  that  he  will.  Should  he  come,  it 
will  be  necessary  to  detain  him.  Here  are  pistols  ; 
and  we  both  know  how  to  use  them  when  occasion 
demands  their  use.” 

I  took  the  pistols,  scarcely  knowing  what  I  did,  or 
believing  what  I  heard,  while  Dupin  went  on,  very 
much  as  if  in  a  soliloquy.  I  have  already  spoken  of 
his  abstract  manner  at  such  times.  His  discourse  was 


308  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 

addressed  to  myself ;  but  his  voice,  although  by  no 
means  loud,  had  that  intonation  which  is  commonly 
employed  in  speaking  to  some  one  at  a  great  distance. 
His  eyes,  vacant  in  expression,  regarded  only  the 
wall. 

^^That  the  voices  heard  in  contention,’’  he  said,  ^^by 
the  party  upon  the  stairs,  were  not  the  voices  of  the 
women  themselves,  was  fully  proved  by  the  evidence. 
This  relieves  us  of  all  doubt  upon  the  question  whether 
the  old  lady  could  have  first  destroyed  the  daughter, 
and  afterward  have  committed  suicide.  I  speak  of 
this  point  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  method;  for  the 
strength  of  IVfadame  L’Espanaye  would  have  been 
utterly  unequal  to  the  task  of  thrusting  her  daughter’s 
corpse  up  the  chimney  as  it  was  found  ;  and  the 
nature  of  the  wounds  upon  her  own  person  entirely 
precludes  the  idea  of  self-destruction.  Murder,  then, 
has  been  committed  by  some  third  party ;  and  the 
voices  of  this  third  party  were  those  heard  in  conten¬ 
tion.  Let  me  now  advert  — not  to  the  whole  testi¬ 
mony  respecting  these  voices  —  but  to  what  was 
peculiar  in  that  testimony.  Did  you  observe  any¬ 
thing  peculiar  about  it?” 

I  remarked  that,  while  all  the  witnesses  agreed  in 
supposing  the  gruff  voice  to  be  that  of  a  Frenchman, 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  309 


there  was  much  disagreement  in  regard  to  the  shrill, 
or,  as  one  individual  termed  it,  the  harsh  voice. 

That  was  the  evidence  itself,”  said  Dupin,  “  but 
it  was  not  the  peculiarity  of  the  evidence.  You  have 
observed  nothing  distinctive.  Yet  there  was  some¬ 
thing  to  be  observed.  The  witnesses,  as  you  remark, 
agreed  about  the  gruff  voice ;  they  were  here  unani¬ 
mous.  But  in  regard  to  the  shrill  voice,  the  peculiarity 
is  —  not  that  they  disagreed  —  but  that,  while  an 
Italian,  an  Englishman,  a  Spaniard,  a  Hollander,  and 
a  Frenchman  attempted  to  describe  it,  each  one  spoke 
of  it  as  that  of  a  foreigner.  Each  is  sure  that  it  was 
not  the  voice  of  one  of  his  own  countrymen.  Each 
likens  it  —  not  to  the  voice  of  an  individual  of  any 
nation  with  whose  language  he  is  conversant  —  but  the 
converse.  The  Frenchman  supposes  it  the  voice  of  a 
Spaniard,  and  ^  might  have  distinguished  some  words 
had  he  been  acquainted  loith  the  Sqjanish.’  The  Dutch¬ 
man  maintains  it  to  have  been  that  of  a  Frenchman ; 
but  we  find  it  stated  that  ^not  understanding  French, 
this  witness  was  examined  through  an  interpreter.’  The 
Englishman  thinks  it  the  voice  of  a  German,  and  ^  does 
not  understand  German.’  The  Spaniard  ‘  is  sure  ’  that 
it  was  that  of  an  Englishman,  but  ‘  judges  by  the  in¬ 
tonation  ’  altogether,  ^  as  he  has  no  knowledge  of  the 


310  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 

English.’  The  Italian  believes  it  the  voice  of  a 
Russian,  but  ‘has  never  conversed  with  a  native  of 
Russia.’  A  second  Frenchman  differs,  moreover,  with 
the  first,  and  is  positive  that  the  voice  was  that  of  an 
Italian  ;  but,  not  being  cognizant  of  that  tongue,  is,  like 
the  Spaniard,  ^convinced  by  the  intonation/  Now, 
how  strangely  unusual  must  that  voice  have  really 
been,  about  which  such  testimony  as  this  could  have 
been  elicited  !  —  in  whose  tones,  even,  denizens  of  the 
five  great  divisions  of  Europe  could  recognize  nothing 
familiar !  You  will  say  that  it  might  have  been  the 
voice  of  an  Asiatic  —  of  an  African.  Neither  Asiatics 
nor  Africans  abound  in  Paris ;  but,  without  denying 
the  inference,  I  will  now  merely  call  your  attention 
to  three  points.  The  voice  is  termed  by  one  witness 
‘  harsh  rather  than  shrill.^  It  is  represented  by  two 
others  to  have  been  ‘  quick  and  unequal’  No  words 
no  sounds  resembling  words  —  were  by  any  witness 
mentioned  as  distinguishable. 

“  I  know  not,’^  continued  Pupin,  “  what  impression 
I  may  have  made,  so  far,  upon  your  own  understand¬ 
ing  ;  but  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  legitimate  de¬ 
ductions  even  from  this  portion  of  the  testimony  — 
the  portion  respecting  the  gruff  and  shrill  voices  — 
are  in  themselves  sufficient  to  engender  a  suspicion 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  311 

which  should  give  direction  to  all  farther  progress  in 
the  investigation  of  the  mystery.  I  said  ‘  legitimate 
deductions;’  but  my  meaning  is  not  thus  fully  ex¬ 
pressed.  I  designed  to  imply  that  the  deductions  are 
the  sole  proper  ones,  and  that  the  suspicion  arises 
inevitably  from  them  as  the  single  result.  What  the 
suspicion  is,  however,  I  will  not  say  just  yet.  I  merely 
wish  you  to  bear  in  mind  that,  with  myself,  it  was 
sufficiently  forcible  to  give  a  definite  form,  a  certain 
tendency,  to  my  inquiries  in  the  chamber. 

“Let  us  now  transport  ourselves,  in  fancy,  to  this 
chamber.  What  shall  we  first  seek  here  ?  The  means 
of  egress  employed  by  the  murderers.  It  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  neither  of  us  believes  in  preternatural 
events.  Madame  and  Mademoiselle  L’Espanaye  were 
not  destroyed  by  spirits.  The  doers  of  the  deed  were 
material,  and  escaped  materially.  Then  how  ?  For¬ 
tunately,  there  is  but  one  mode  of  reasoning  upon  the 
point,  and  that  mode  must  lead  us  to  a  definite  de¬ 
cision. —  Let  us  examine,  each  by  each,  the  possible 
means  of  egress.  It  is  clear  that  the  assassins  were 
in  the  room  where  Mademoiselle  L’Espanaye  was 
found,  or  at  least  in  the  room  adjoining,  when  the 
party  ascended  the  stairs.  It  is  then  only  from  these 
two  apartments  that  we  have  to  seek  issues.  The 


312  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 

police  have  laid  bare  the  floors,  the  ceilings,  and  the 
inasoniy  of  the  walls,  in  every  direction.  No  secTBt 
issues  could  have  escaped  their  vigilance.  But,  not 
trusting  to  their  eyes,  I  examined  with  my  own. 
There  were,  then,  no  secret  issues.  Both  doors  lead- 
ing  from  the  rooms  into  the  passage  were  securely 
locked,  with  the  keys  inside.  Let  us  turn  to  the  chim¬ 
neys.  These,  although  of  ordinary  width  for  some 
eight  or  ten  feet  above  the  hearths,  will  not  admit, 
throughout  their  extent,  the  body  of  a  large  cat.  The 
impossibility  of  egress,  by  means  already  stated,  be¬ 
ing  thus  absolute,  we  are  reduced  to  the  windows. 
Through  those  of  the  front  room  no  one  could  have 
escaped  without  notice  from  the  crowd  in  the  street. 
The  murderers  must  have  passed,  then,  through  those 
of  the  back  room.  Now,  brought  to  this  conclusion  in 
so  une(^ui vocal  a  manner  as  we  are,  it  is  not  our  part, 
as  reasoners,  to  reject  it  on  account  of  apparent  im¬ 
possibilities.  It  is  only  left  for  us  to  prove  that  these 
apparent  '  impossibilities  '  are,  in  reality,  not  such. 

There  are  two  windows  in  the  chamber.  One  of 
them  is  unobstructed  by  furniture,  and  is  wholly  vis¬ 
ible.  The  lower  portion  of  the  other  is  hidden  from 
view  by  the  head  of  the  unwieldy  bedstead  which  is 
thrust  close  up  against  it.  The  former  was  found 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  313 

S6cur6ly  fast6nG(i  from  within.  It  iGsistod.  thG  utmost 
forcG  of  thosG  who  GndoavorGd  to  raisG  it.  A  largG 
gimlGt-holG  had  boon  piorcod  in  its  framo  to  thG  iGft,  * 
and  a  vGry  stout  nail  was  found  fittod  thoroin,  noarly 
to  tliG  hoad.  Upon  Gxamining  thG  othGr  window,  a 
similar  nail  was  sggu  similarly  fittod  in  it ;  and  a 
vigorous  attGinpt  to  raisG  this  sash  failod  also.  Tho 
policG  wGrG  now  Gntiroly  satisfiod  that  Ggrcss  had  not 
boon  in  thosG  dirGctions,  And,  therefore,  it  was  thought 
a  mattGr  of  supGrorogation  to  withdraw  tho  nails  and 
opGn  thG  windows. 

My  own  Gxarnination  was  somGwhat  more  particu¬ 
lar,  and  was  so  for  the  reason  I  have  just  given; 
because  here  it  was,  I  knew,  that  all  apparent  impos¬ 
sibilities  must  be  proved  to  be  not  such  in  reality. 

I  proceeded  to  think  thus  —  d  posteriori.  The 
murderers  did  escape  from  one  of  these  windows. 
This  being  so,  they  could  not  have  refastened  the 
sashes  from  the  inside,  as  they  were  found  fastened : 
the  consideration  which  put  a  stop,  through  its  obvi¬ 
ousness,  to  the  scrutiny  of  the  police  in  this  quarter. 
Yet  the  sashes  were  fastened.  They  must,  then,  have 
the  power  of  fastening  themselves.  There  was  no 
escape  from  this  conclusion.  I  stepped  to  the  unob¬ 
structed  casement,  withdrew  the  nail  with  some  diffi- 


314  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  | 

ti' 

culty,  and  attempted  to  raise  the  sash.  It  resisted  all  | 
my  efforts,  as  I  had  anticipated.  A  concealed  spring  1 

must,  I  now  knew,  exist  5  and  this  corroboration  of  i 

my  idea  convinced  me  that  my  premises,  at  least, 
were  correct,  however  mysterious  still  appeared  the 
circumstances  attending  the  nails.  A  careful  search  .! 
soon  brought  to  light  the  hidden  spring.  I  pressed  it,  t 
and,  satisfied  with  the  discovery,  forbore  to  upraise  \ 
the  sash.  \ 

I  now  replaced  the  nail  and  regarded  it  attentively.  I 
A  person  passing  out  through  this  window  might  have  I 
reclosed  it,  and  the  spring  would  have  caught  —  but  ^ 
the  nail  could  not  have  been  replaced.  The  conclu-  j 
sion  was  plain,  and  again  narrowW  in  the  field  of  ! 
my  investigations.  The  assassins  must  have  escaped  | 
through  the  other  window.  Supposing,  then,  the 
springs  upon  each  sash  to  be  the  same,  as  was  prob¬ 
able,  there  must  be  found  a  difference  between  the 
nails,  or  at  least  between  the  modes  of  their  fixture. 
Getting  upon  the  sacking  of  the  bedstead,  I  looked 
over  the  head-board  minutely  at  the  second  casement. 
Passing  my  hand  down  behind  the  board,  I  readily 
discovered  and  pressed  the  spring,  which  was,  as  I 
had  supposed,  identical  in  character  with  its  neighbor. 

I  now  looked  at  the  nail.  It  was  as  stout  as  the  other, 


THE  MURDERS  IN 


THE  RUE  MORGUE  315 


and  apparently  fitted  in  the  same  manner  —  driven  in 
nearly  up  to  the  head. 

“  You  will  say  that  I  was  puzzled  ;  but,  if  you  think 
so,  you  must  have  misunderstood  the  nature  of  the 
inductions.  To  use  a  sporting  phrase,  I  had  not  been 
once  ‘  at  fault.’  The  scent  had  never  for  an  instant 
been  lost.  There  was  no  flaw  in  any  link  of  the  chain. 

I  had  traced  the  secret  to  its  ultimate  result,  —  and 
that  result  was  the  nail  It  had,  I  say,  in  every  re¬ 
spect,  the  appearance  of  its  fellow  in  the  other  win¬ 
dow  ;  but  this  fact  was  an  absolute  nullity  (conclusive 
as  it  might  seem  to  be)  when  compared  with  the  con¬ 
sideration  that  here,  at  this  point,  terminated  the 
clew.  'There  must  be  .something  wrong,’  I  said, 

'  about  the  nail.’  I  touched  it ;  and  the  head,  with 
about  a  quarter  of  an  inch  of  the  shank,  came  off  in 
mv  fingers.  The  rest  of  the  shank  was  in  the  gimlet- 
hW,  where  it  had  been  broken  off.  The  fracture  was 
an  old  one  (for  its  edges  were  incrusted  with  rust), 
and  had  apparently  been  accomplished  by  the  blow  o 
a  hammer,  which  had  partially  imbedded,  m  the  top 
of  the  bottom  sash,  the  head  portion  of  the  nail, 
now  carefully  replaced  this  head  portion  in  the  inden¬ 
tation  whence  I  had  taken  it,  and  the  resemblance  to 
a  perfect  nail  was  complete  — the  fissure  was  invisible. 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


Pressing  the  spring,  I  gently  raised  the  sash  for  a  few 
inches ;  the  head  went  up  with  it,  remaining  firm  in 
its  bed.  I  closed  the  window,  and  the  semblance  of 
the  whole  nail  was  again  perfect.  ‘ 

^^The  riddle,  so  far,  was  now  unriddled.  The  as¬ 
sassin  had  escaped  through  the  window  which  looked 
upon  the  bed.  Dropping  of  its  own  accord  upon  his 
exit  (or  perhaps  purposely  closed),  it  had^  become  fas¬ 
tened  by  the  spring ;  and  it  was  the  retention  of  this 
spring  whmh  had  been  mistaken  by  the  police  for  that 

of  the  nail,  — farther  inquiry  being  thus  considered 
unnecessary. 

The  next  question  is  that  of  the  mode  of  descent. 
Upon  this  point  I  had  been  satisfied  in  my  walk  with 
you  around  the  building.  About  five  feet  and  a  half 
from  the  casement  in  question  there  runs  a  lightning- 
rod.  From  this  rod  it  would  have  been  impossible 
for  any  one  to  reach  the  window  itself,  to  say  nothing 
of  entering  it.  I  observed,  however,  that  the  shutters 
of  the  fourth  story  were  of  the  peculiar  kind  called  by 
Parisian  carpenters /ermdes  —  a  kind  rarely  employed 
at  the  present  day,  but  frequently  seen  upon  very  old 
mansions  at  Lyons  and  Bordeaux.  They  are  in  the 
form  of  an  ordinary  door  (a  single,  not  a  folding 
door),  except  that  the  upper  half  is  latticed  or  worked 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  317 

in  Open  trellis  —  thus  affording -an  excellent  hold  for 
the  hands.  In  the  present  instance  these  shutters  are 
fully  three  feet  and  a  half  broad.  When  we  saw  them 
from  the  rear  of  the  house,  they  were  both  about  half 
open  ^  that  is  to  say,  they  stood  off  at  right  angles 
from  the  wall.  It  is  probable  that  the  police,  as  well 
as  myself,  examined  the  back  of  the  tenement ;  but,  if 
so,  in  looking  at  these  ferrades  in  the  line  of  their 
breadth  (as  they  must  have  done),  they  did  not  per¬ 
ceive  this  great  breadth  itself,  or,  at  all  events,  failed 
to  take  it  into  due  consideration.  In  fact,  having 
once  satisfied  themselves  that  no  egress  could  have 
been  made  in  this  quarter,  they  would  naturally  be¬ 
stow  here  a  very  cursory  examination.  It  was  clear 
to  me,  however,  that  the  shutter  belonging  to  the 
window  at  the  head  of  the  bed  would,  if  swung  fully 
back  to  the  wall,  reach  to  within  two  feet  of  the 
lightning-rod.  It  was  also  evident  that,  by  exertion 
of  a  very  unusual  degree  of  activity  and  courage,  an 
entrance  into  the  window,  from  the  rod,  might  have 
been  thus  effected.  By  reaching  to  the  distance  of 
two  feet  and  a  half  (we  now  suppose  the  shutter  open 
to  its  whole  extent),  a  robber  might  have  taken  a  firm 
grasp  upon  the  trellis-work.  Betting  go,  then,  his 
hold  upon  the  rod,  placing  his  feet  securely  against 


318 


t 


THE  MURDERS  IK  THE  RUE  MORGUE 

I 

the  wall,  and  springing  boldly  from  it,  he  might  have 
swung  the  shutter  so  as  to  close  it,  and,  if  we  imagine 
the  window  open  at  the  time,  might  even  have  swung 
himself  into  the  room. 

“  I  wish  you  to  bear  especially  in  mind  that  I  have 
spoken  of  a  very  unusual  degree  of  activity  as  requi¬ 
site  to  success  in  so  hazardous  and  so  difficult  a  feat. 
It  is  my  design  to  show  you,  first,  that  the  thing 
might  possibly  have  been  accomplished :  but,  secondly 
and  chiefly,  I  wish  to  impress  upon  your  understand¬ 
ing  the  very  extraordinary,  the  almost  preternatural, 
character  of  that  agility  which  could  have  accom¬ 
plished  it. 

You  will  say,  no  doubt,  using  the  language  of  the 
law,  that  ^  to  make  out  my  case  ^  I  should  rather  un¬ 
dervalue  than  insist  upon  a  full  estimation  of  the 
activity  required  in  this  matter.  This  may  be  the 
practice  in  law,  but  it  is  not  the  usage  of  reason.  My 
ultimate  object  is  only  the  truth.  My  immediate  pur¬ 
pose  is  to  lead  you  to  place  in  juxtaposition  that  very 
unusual  activity,  of  which  I  have  just  spoken,  with 
that  very  peculiar  shrill  (or  harsh)  and  unequal  voice, 
about  whose  nationality  no  two  persons  could  be  found 
to  agree,  and  in  whose  utterance  no  syllabification 
could  be  detected.” 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


At  these  words  a  vague  and  half-formed  conception 
of  the  meaning  of  Dupln  flitted  over  my  mind.  I 
seemed  to  be  upon  the  verge  of  comprehension,  with¬ 
out  power  to  comprehend;  as  men,  at  times,  find 
themselves  upon  the  brink  of  remembrance,  without 
being  able,  in  the  end,  to  remember.  My  friend  went 
on  with  his  discourse. 

You  will  see,”  he  said,  ‘Hhat  I  have  shifted  the 
question  from  the  mode  of  egress  to  that  of  ingress. 
It  was  my  design  to  suggest  that  both  were  effected 
in  the  same  manner,  at  the  same  point.  Let  us  now 
revert  to  the  interior  of  the  room.  Let  us  survey  the 
appearances  here.  The  drawers  of  the  bureau,  it  is 
said,  had  been  rifled,  although  many  articles  of  ap¬ 
parel  still  remained  within  them.  The  conclusion 
here  is  absurd.  It  is  a  mere  guess  —  a  very  silly  one 

_ and  no  more.  How  are  we  to  know  that  the  articles 

found  in  the  drawers  were  not  all  these  drawers  had 
originally  contained?  Madame  L’Espanaye  and  her 
daughter  lived  an  exceedingly  retired  life  —  saw  no 
company,  seldom  went  out,  had  little  use  for  numerous 
changes*^  of  habiliment.  Those  found  were  at  least  of 
as  good  quality  as  any  likely  to  be  possessed  by  these 
ladies.  If  a  thief  had  taken  any,  why  did  he  not  take 
the  best  —  why  did  he  not  take  all  ?  In  a  word,  why 


did  he  abandon  four  thousand  francs  in  gold  to  en-  i 
cumber  himself  with  a  bundle  of  linen?  The  gold  i 
was  abandoned.  Nearly  the  whole  sum  mentioned  by 
Monsieur  Mignaud,  the  banker,  was  discovered,  in  1 
bags,  upon  the  floor.  I  wish  you,  therefore,  to  dis-  i 
card  from  your  thoughts  the  blundering  idea  of  motive,  ![ 
engendered  in  the  brains  of  the  police  by  that  portion  I 


the  door  of  the  house.  Coincidences  ten  times  as 
remaikable  as  this  (the  delivery  of  the  money,  and 


murder  committed  within  three  days  upon  the  party 
receiving  it)  happen  to  all  of  us  every  hour  of  our  i 
lives,  without  attracting  even  momentary  notice. 
Coincidences,  in  general,  are  great  stumbling-blocks  1 
in  the  way  of  that  class  of  thinkers  who  have  been  : 
educated  to  know  nothing  of  the  theory  of  probabili-  | 
ties :  that  theory  to  which  the  most  glorious  objects 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  321 

lating  an  idiot  as  to  have  abandoned  his  gold  and  his 

motive  together.  ^ 

“  Keeping  now  steadily  in  mind  the  points  to  which 

I  have  drawn  your  attention  —  that  peculiar  voice, 
that  unusual  agility,  and  that  startling  absence  of 
motive  in  a  murder  so  singularly  atrocious  as  this  — 
let  us  glance  at  the  butchery  itself.  Here  is  a  woman 
strangled  to  death  by  manual  strength,  and  thrust  up 
a  chimney,  head  downward.  Ordinary  assassins  em¬ 
ploy  no  such  modes  of  murder  as  this.  Least  of  al  , 
do  they  thus  dispose  of  the  murdered.  In  the  manner 
of  thrusting  the  corpse  up  the  chimney,  you  will 
admit  that  there  was  something  excessively  outri 
something  altogether  irreconcilable  with  our  common 
notions  of  human  action,  even  when  we  suppose  the 
actors  the  most  depraved  of  men.  Think,  too,  ow 
great  must  have  been  that  strength  which  could  have 
thrust  the  body  up  such  an  aperture  so  forcibly  that 
the  united  vigor  of  several  persons  was  found  bare  y 

sufficient  to  drag  it  down ! 

Turn,  now,  to  other  indications  of  the  employment 
of  a  vigor  most  marvellous.  On  the  hearth  were  thic 
tresses  — very  thick  tresses  — of  gray  human  hair. 
These  had  been  torn  out  by  the  roots.  You  are  aware 
of  the  great  force  necessary  in  tearing  thus  from  the 


X 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


head  even  twenty  or  thirty  hairs  together.  You  saw  j 
the  locks  in  question  as  well  as  myself.  Their  roots  I 
(a  hideous  sight !)  were  clotted  with  fragments  of  the  i 
flesh  of  the  scalp:  sure  token. of  the  prodigious  power  i 
which  had  been  exerted  in  uprooting  perhaps  half  a 
million  of  hairs  at  a  time.  The  throat  of  the  old  lady 
was  not  merely  cut,  but  the  head  absolutely  severed 
from  the  body ;  the  instrument  was  a  mere  razor.  I 
wish  you  also  to  look  at  the  brutal  ferocity  of  these 
deeds.  Of  the  bruises  upon  the  body  of  Madame 
L  Espanaye  I  do  not  speak.  Monsieur  Dumas,  and 
his  worthy  coadjutor  Monsieur  lEtienne,  have  pro¬ 
nounced  that  they  were  inflicted  by  some  obtuse  in¬ 
strument  j  and  so  far  these  gentlemen  are  very  correct.  * 
The  obtuse  instrument  was  clearly  the  stone  pavement 
in  the  yard,  upon  which  the  victim  had  fallen  from 
the  window  which  looked  in  upon  the  bed.  This  idea, 
however  simple  it  may  now  seem,  escaped  the  police 
for  the  same  reason  that  the  breadth  of  the  shutters 
escaped  them  —  because,  by  the  affair  of  the  nails, 
their  perceptions  had  been  hermetically  sealed  against 
the  possibility  of  the  windows  having  ever  been  opened 
at  all. 

If  now,  in  addition  to  all  these  things,  you  have 
properly  reflected  upon  the  odd  disorder  of  the  cham^  - 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  323 

ber,  we  have  gone  so  far  as  to  combine  the  ideas  of  an 
agility  astounding,  a  strength  superhuman,  a  ferocity 
brutal,  a.  butchery  without  motive,  a  grotesquerie  in 
horror  absolutely  alien  from  humanity,  and  a  voice 
foreign  in  tone  to  the  ears  of  men  of  many  nations, 
and  devoid  of  all  distinct  or  intelligible  syllabifica¬ 
tion.  What  result,  then,  has  ensued  ?  What  impres¬ 
sion  have  I  made  upon  your  fancy  ?  ” 

I  felt  a  creeping  of  the  flesh  as  Dupin  asked  me  the 
I  question.  ‘‘  A  madman,”  I  said,  “  has  done  this  deed 

_ some  raving  maniac,  escaped  from  a  neighboring 

Maison  de  Sante.” 

“In  some  respects,”  he  replied,  “your  idea  is  not 
irrelevant.  But  the  voices  of  madmen,  even  in  their 
wildest  paroxysms,  are  never  found  to  tally  with  that 
peculiar  voice  heard  upon  the  stairs.  Madmen  are  of 
some  nation,  and  their  language,  however  incoherent 
in  its  words,  has  always  the  coherence  of  syllabifica¬ 
tion.  Besides,  the  hair  of  a  madman  is  not  such  as  I 
now  hold  in  my  hand.  I  disentangled  this  little  tuft 
from  the  rigidly  clutched  fingers  of  Madame  L’Espa. 
naye.  Tell  me  what  you  can  make  of  it.” 

“Dupin!”  I  said,  completely  unnerved;  “this  hair 
is  most  unusual  —  this  is  no  human  hair.” 

“  I  have  not  asserted  that  it  is,”  said  he ;  but, 


1 


324  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MOROVE  ' 

i; 

before  we  decide  this  point,  I  wish  you  to  glance  at  , 
the  little  sketch  I  have  here  traced  upon  this  paper.- 
It  is  a  fac-simile  drawing  of  what  has  been  described  , 
in  one  portion  of  the  testimony  as  ‘  dark  bruises,  and  1 
deep  indentations  of  finger-nails,’  upon  the  throat  of  ^ 
Mademoiselle  L’Espanaye,  and  in  another  (by  Messrs. 
Dumas  and  Etienne)  as  a  ^series  of  livid  spots,  evi- 
dently  the  impression  of  fingers.’ 

,  r 

^‘You  will  perceive,”  continued  my  friend,  spread-  ' 
ing  out  the  paper  upon  the  table  before  us,  ^‘that  this 
drawing  gives  the  idea  of  a  firm  and  fixed  hold.  There  |  ‘ 
is  no  slipping  apparent.  Each  finger  has  retained  —  t ' 
possibly  until  the  death  of  the  victim  —  the  fearful  ' 
grasp  by  which  it  originally  imbedded  itself.  Attempt,  '  * 
now,  to  place  all  your  fingers,  at  the  same  time,  in  the 
respective  impressions  as  you  see  them.” 

I  made  the  attempt  in  vain.  ! 

“We  are  possibly  not  giving  this  matter  a  fair 
trial,”  he  said.  “The  paper  is  spread  out  upon  a 
plane  surface ;  but  the  human  throat  is  cylindrical. 
Here  is  a  billet  of  wood,  the  circumference  of  which  ! 
is  about  that  of  the  throat.  W rap  the  drawing  around  i 
it,  and  try  the  experiment  again.”  < 

I  did  so ;  but  the  difficulty  was  even  more  obvious  than 
before.  “  This,”  I  said,  is  the  mark  of  no  human  hand.” 


THE  MURDERS  IH  THE  RUE  MORGUE  325 

«Ilead  now,”  replied  Dupin,  ‘'this  passage  from 

Mvier.”  j 

It  was  a  minute  anatomical  and  generally  descrip- 

ive  account  of  the  large  fulvous  Ourang-Outang  o 
he  East  Indian  Islands.  The  gigantic  stature,  the 
)rodigious  strength  and  activity,  the  wild  ferocity, 
ind  the  imitative  propensities  of  these  mammalia  are 
mfficiently  well  known  to  all.  I  understood  the  fu 

lorrors  of  the  murder  at  once. 

“  The  description  of  the  digits,”  said  I,  as  I  made 
an  end  of  reading,  “  is  in  exact  accordance  with  this 
drawing.  I  see  that  no  animal  but  an  Ourang-Outang, 
of  the  species  here  mentioned,  could  have  impressed 
the  indentations  as  you  have  traced  them.  This  tutt 
of  tawny  hair,  too,  is  identical  in  character  with  that 
of  the  beast  of  Cuvier.  But  I  cannot  possibly  com¬ 
prehend  the  particulars  of  this  frightful  mystery. 
Besides,  there  were  two  voices  heard  in  contention, 
and  one  of  them  was  unquestionably  the  voice  of  a 

frenchman.”  •  -i, 

“  True ;  and  you  will  remember  an  expression  attrib¬ 
uted  almost  unanimously,  by  the  evidence,  to  tps 
yoice,  —  the  expression,  ‘  mow  Dieu.’  This,  un  er 
the  circumstances,  has  been  justly  characterized  by 
one  of  the  witnesses  (Montani,  the  confectioner)  as  an 


326 


THE  MURDERS  IlSf  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


expression  of  remonstrance  or  expostulation.  Upon  t 
these  two  words,  therefore,  I  have  mainly  built  my  * 
hopes  of  a  full  solution  of  the  riddle.  A  Frenchman  * 
was  cognizant  of  the  murder.  It  is  possible  —  indeed  j 
it  is  far  more  than  probable  —  that  he  was  innocent  of 
all  participation  in  the  bloody  transactions  which  took 
place.  The  Ourang-Outang  may  have  escaped  from 
him.  He  may  have  traced  it  to  the  chamber;  but, 
under  the  agitating  circumstances  which  ensued,  he 
could  never  have  recaptured  it.  It  is  still  at  large. 

I  will  not  pursue  these  guesses  —  for  I  have  no  right 
to  call  them  more  —  since  the  shades  of  reflection 
upon  which  they  are  based  are  scarcely  of  sufficient 
depth  to  be  appreciable  by  my  own  intellect,  and  since 
I  could  not  pretend  to  make  them  intelligible  to  the 
understanding  of  another.  We  will  call  them  guesses, 
then,  and  speak  of  them  as  such.  If  the  Frenchman 
in  question  is  indeed,  as  I  suppose,  innocent  of  this 
atrocity,  this  advertisement,  which  I  left  last  night, 
upon  our  return  home,  at  the  office  of  Le  Monde  (a 
paper  devoted  to  the  shipping  interest,  and  much 
sought  by  sailors),  will  bring  him  to  our  residence.’^ 

He  handed  me  a  paper,  and  I  read  thus  : 

“Caught  In  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  early  in  the  morning 
of  the  -  inst.  [the  morning  of  the  murder],  a  very  large, 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 

avsny  Ourang-Outang  of  the  Bornese  species.  The  oxcner 
'who  is  ascertained  to  be  a  sailor,  belonging  to  a  Maltese  ves¬ 
sel)  may  have  the  animal  again,  upon  identifying  it  satisfac- 
Prilv,  and  paying  a  few  charges  arising  from  its  capture  and 
keeping.  Call  at  No. - ,  Bue - ,  Faubourg  St.  Germain 

—  au  troisihne." 


‘‘  How  was  it  possible,”  I  asked,  that  you  should 
know  the  man  to  be  a  sailor,  and  belonging  to  a  Mal¬ 
tese  vessel  ?  ” 

‘‘  I  do  not  know  it,”  said  Dupin.  I  am  not  sure  ot 
it.  Here,  however,  is  a  small  piece  of  ribbon,  which, 
from  its  form,  and  from  its  greasy  appearance,  has 
evidently  been  used  in  tying  the  hair  in  one  of  those 
long  queues  of  which  sailors  are  so  fond.  Moreover, 
this  knot  is  one  which  few  besides  sailors  can  tie,  and 
is  peculiar  to  the  Maltese.  I  picked  the  ribbon  up  at 
the  foot  of  the  lightning-rod.  It  could  not  have  be¬ 
longed  to  either  of  the  deceased.  How  if,  after  all,  I 
am  wrong  in  my  induction  from  this  ribbon,  that  the 
Frenchman  was  a  sailor  belonging  to  a  Maltese  vessel, 
still  I  can  have  done  no  harm  in  saying  what  I  did 
in  the  advertisement.  If  I  am  in  error,  he  will  merely 
suppose  that  I  have  been  misled  by  some  circum¬ 
stance  into  which  he  will  not  take  the  trouble  to  in¬ 
quire.  But  if  I  am  right,  a  great  point  is  gained 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 

Cognizant  although  innocent  of  the  murder,  the  ' 
Frenchman  will  naturally  hesitate  about  replying  to 
the  advertisement  —  about  demanding  the  Ourang-  ,, 
Outang.  He  will  reason  thus  :  ‘  I  am  innocent ;  I  am 
poor ;  my  Ourang-Outang  is  of  great  value  —  to  one  | 
in  my  circumstances  a  fortune  of  itself  —  why  should  j 
I  lose  it  through  idle  apprehensions  of  danger  ?  Here  .1 1 
it  is,  within  my  grasp.  It  was  found  in  the  Bois  de  i\ 
Boulogne  at  a  vast  distance  from  the  scene  of  that  1 1 
butchery.  How  can  it  ever  be  suspected  that  a  brute  ■ , 
beast  should  have  done  the  deed  ?  The  police  are  at  J  , 
fault ;  they  have  failed  to  procure  the  slightest  clew.  | 
Should  they  even  trace  the  animal,  it  would  be  impos-  | 
sible  to  prove  me  cognizant  of  the  murder,  or  to  impli-  I 
cate  me  in  guilt  on  account  of  that  cognizance.  Above  ^ 
all,  I  am  known.  The  advertiser  designates  me  as  the  ’ 
possessor  of  the  beast.  I  am  not  sure  to  what  limit  \ 
his  knowledge  may  extend.  Should  I  avoid  claim-  % 
ing  a  property  of  so  great  value,  which  it  is  known  1 
that  I  possess,  I  will  render  the  animal,  at  least,  liable  ] 
to  suspicion.  It  is  not  my  policy  to  attract  attention  i] 
either  to  myself  or  to  the  beast.  I  will  answer  the  ' 
advertisement,  get  the  Ourang-Outang,  and  keep  it  [ 
close  until  this  matter  has  blown  over.’  ’’  j 

At  this  moment  we  heard  a  step  upon  the  stairs. 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


‘‘Be  ready,”  said  Dupin,  “with  your  pistols,  but 
leither  use  them  nor  show  them  until  at  a  signal  from 
oayself.” 

The  front  door  of  the  house  had  been  left  open,  and 
the  visitor  had  entered,  without  ringing,  and  advanced 
several  steps  upon  the  staircase.  Now,  however,  he 
seemed  to  hesitate.  Presently  we  heard  him  descend¬ 
ing.  Dupin  was  moving  quickly  to  the  door,  when  we 
aagain  heard  him  coming  up.  He  did  not  turn  back  a 
second  time,  but  stepped  up  with  decision,  and  rapped 

at  the  door  of  our  chamber. 

“  Come  in,”  said  Dupin,  in  a  cheerful  and  hearty 

t  tone. 

A  man  entered.  He  was  a  sailor,  evidently,  ^a 
t  tall,  stout,  and  muscular-looking  person,  with  a  certain 
dare-devil  expression  of  countenance,  not  altogether 
unprepossessing.  His  face,  greatly  sunburnt,  was 
more  than  half  hidden  by  whisker  and  mustachio. 
He  had  with  him  a  huge  oaken  cudgel,  but  appeared 
to  be  otherwise  unarmed.  He  bowed  awkwardly,  and 
bade  us  “  Good-evening,”  in  Prench  accents,  which, 
although  somewhat  Neufchatelish,  were  still  suffi¬ 
ciently  indicative  of  a  Parisian  oiigin. 

<<  Sit  down,  my  friend,”  said  Dupin.  “  I  suppose 
you  have  called  about  the  Ourang-Outang.  Upon  my 


330  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


word,  I  almost  envy  you  the  possession  of  him  ;  a  re- 
markably  fine  and  no  doubt  a  very  valuable  animal. 
How  old  do  you  suppose  him  to  be  ?  ” 

The  sailor  drew  a  long  breath,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
relieved  of  some  intolerable  burden,  and  then  replied, 
in  an  assured  tone  : 

I  have  no  way  of  telling  —  but  he  canT  be  more 
than  four  or  five  years  old.  Have  you  got  him  here  ?  '' 
^^Oh,  no;  we  had  no  conveniences  for  keeping  him 
here.  He  is  at  a  livery  stable  in  the  Eue  Dubourg, 
just  by.  You  can  get  him  in  the  morning.  Of  course 
you  are  prepared  to  identify  the  property  ? 

To  be  sure  I  am,  sir.’’ 

I  shall  be  sorry  to  part  with  him,”  said  Hu^. 

I  don  t  mean  that  you  should  be  at  a,ll  this  trouble 
for  nothing,  sir,”  said  the  man.  Couldn’t  lexpect  it. 
Am  very  willing  to  pay  a  reward  for  the  finding  of 
the  animal  —  that  is  to  say,  anything  in  reason.” 


•1 


) 


j 


1 


I 


Well,  replied  my  friend,  that  is  all  very  fair,  to  I 
be  sure.  Let  me  think !  —  what  should  I  have  ?  Oh !  1 
I  will  tell  you.  My  reward  shall  be  this.  You  shall 
give  me  all  the  information  in  your  power  about  these  s 
murders  in  the  Eue  Morgue.”  ij 

Dupin  said  the  last  words  in  a  very  low  tone,  and  ;i 
very  quietly.  Just  as  quietly,  too,  he  walked  toward  ji 


1 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  331  ' 

le  door,  locked  it,  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket.  He 
len  drew  a  pistol  from  his  bosom  and  placed  it,  with- 
at  the  least  flurry,  upon  the  table. 

The  sailor’s  face  flushed  up  as  if  he  were  struggling 
nth  suffocation.  He  started  to  his  feet  and  grasped 
is  cudgel ;  but  the  next  moment  he  fell  back  into  his 
9at,  trembling  violently,  and  with  the  countenance  of 
eath  itself.  He  spoke  not  a  word.  I  pitied  him  from 
lie  bottom  of  my  heart. 

My  friend,”  said  Dupin,  in  a  kind  tone,  “  you  are 
larming  yourself  unnecessarily  —  you  are  indeed. 
Ve  mean  you  no  harm  whatever.  I  pledge  you  the 
.onor  of  a  gentleman',  and  of  a  Frenchman,  that  we 
Qtend  you  no  injury.  I  perfectly  well  know  that  you 
,re  innocent  of  the  atrocities  in  the  Hue  Morgue.  It 
viW  not  do,  however,  to  deny  that  you  are  in  some 
aeasure  implicated  in  them.  From  what  I  have 
Iready  said,  you  must  know  that  I  have  had  means 
:>f  information  about  this  matter  —  means  of  which 
''ou  could  never  have  dreamed.  How  the  thing  stands 
hus.  You  have  done  nothing  which  you  could  have 
Lvoided  —  nothing,  certainly,  which  renders  you  cul- 
lable.  You  were  not  even  guilty  of  robbery,  when 
rou  might  have  robbed  with  impunity.  You  have 
lothing  to  conceal.  You  have  no  reason  for  conceal- 


332 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


merit.  On  the  other  hand,  yon  are  bound  by  every 
principle  of  honor  to  confess  all  you  know.  An  inno¬ 
cent  man  is  now  imprisoned,  charged  with  that  crime 
of  which  you  can  point  out  the  perpetrator.” 

The  sailor  had  recovered  his  presence  of  mind,  in  a 
great  measure,  while  Dupin  uttered  these  words ;  but 
his  original  boldness  of  bearing  was  all  gone. 

“  So  help  me  God,”  said  he,  after  a  brief  pause,  I 
will  tell  you  all  I  know  about  this  affair ;  but  I  do  not 
expect  you  to  believe  one-half  I  say  —  I  would  be  a  j 
fool  indeed  if  I  did.  Still,  I  am  innocent,  and  I  will  | 
make  a  clean  breast  if  I  die  for  it.” 

What  he  stated  was,  in  substance,  this.  He  had 
lately  made  a  voyage  to  the  Indian  Archipelago.  A 
party,  of  which  he  formed  one,  landed  at  Borneo,  and 
passed  into  the  interior  on  an  excursion  of  pleasure. 
Himself  and  a  companion  had  captured  the  Ourang- 
Outang.  This  companion  dying,  the  animal  fell  into 
his  own  exclusive  possession.  After  great  trouble, 
occasioned  by  the  intractable  ferocity  of  his  captive 
during  the  home  voyage,  he  at  length  succeeded  in 
lodging  it  safely  at  his  own  residence  in  Paris,  where, 
not  to  attract  toward  himself  the  unpleasant  curiosity 
of  his  neighbors,  he  kept  it  carefully  secluded,  until 
such  time  as  it  should  recover  from  a  wound  in  the 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  333 


foot,  rt:ceived  from  a  splinter  on  board  ship.  His 
ultimate  design  was  to  sell  it. 

E-eturning  home  from  some  sailors’  frolic  on  the 
night,  or  rather  in  the  morning,  of  the  murder,  he 
found  the  beast  occupying  his  own  bedroom,  into 
which  it  had  broken  from  a  closet  adjoining,  where 
it  had  been,  as  was  thought,  securely  confined.  Kazor 
in  hand,  and  fully  lathered,  it  was  sitting  before  a 
looking-glass,  attempting  the  operation  of  shaving, 
in  which  it  had  no  doubt  previously  watched  its 
master  through  the  key-hole  of  the  closet.  Terrified 
at  the  sight  of  so  dangerous  a  weapon  in  the  posses¬ 
sion  of  an  animal  so  ferocious,  and  so  well  able  to  use 
it,  the  man  for  some  moments  was  at  a  loss  what  to 
do.  He  had  been  accustomed,  however,  to  quiet  the 
creature,  even  in  its  fiercest  moods,  by  the  use  of  a 
whip,  and  to  this  he  now  resorted.  Upon  sight  of  it, 
the  Ourang-Outang  sprang  at  once  through  the  door 
of  the  chamber,  down  the  stairs,  and  thence,  through 
a  window,  unfortunately  open,  into  the  street. 

The  Frenchman  followed  in  despair ;  the  ape,  razor 
still  in  hand,  occasionally  stopping  to  look  back  and 
gesticulate  at  its  pursuer,  until  the  latter  had  nearly 
come  up  with  it.  It  then  again  made  off.  In  this 
manner  the  chase  continued  for  a  long  time.  The 


334  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 


streets  were  profoundly  quiet,  as  it  was  nearly  three 
o’clock  in  the  morning.  In  passing  down  an  alley  in 
the  rear  of  the  Rue  Morgue,  the  fugitive’s  attention 
was  arrested  by  a  light  gleaming  from  the  open  win¬ 
dow  of  Madame  L’Espanaye’s  chamber,  in  the  fourth 
story  of  her  house.  Rushing  to  the  building,  it  per¬ 
ceived  the  lightning-rod,  clambered  up  with  incon¬ 
ceivable  agility,  grasped  the  shutter,  which  was 
thrown  fully  back  against  the '  wall,  and,  by  its 
means,  swung  itself  directly  upon  the  headboard  of 
the  bed.  The  whole  feat  did  not  occupy  a  minute. 
The  shutter  was  kicked  open  again  by  the  Ourang- 
Outang  as  it  entered  the  room. 

The  sailor,  in  the  meantime,  was  both  rejoiced  and 
perplexed.  He  had  strong  hopes  of  now  recapturing 
the  brute,  as  it  could  scarcely  escape  from  the  trap 
into  which  it  had  ventured,  except  by  the  rod,  where 
it  might  be  intercepted  as  it  came  down.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  was  much  cause  for  anxiety  as  to 
what  it  might  do  in  the  house.  This  latter  reflection 
urged  the  man  still  to  follow  the  fugitive.  A  light¬ 
ning-rod  is  ascended  without  difficulty,  especially  by  a 
sailor ;  but,  when  he  had  arrived  as  high  as  the  win¬ 
dow,  which  lay  far  to  his  left,  his  career  was  stopped ; 
the  most  that  he  could  accomplish  was  to  reach  over 


T'«C»  - 


THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  335 


SO  as  to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  the  interior  of  the  room. 
At  this  glimpse  he  nearly  fell  from  his  hold  through 
excess  of  horror.  Now  it  was  that  those  hideous 
shrieks  arose  upon  the  night,  which  had  startled  from 
slumber  the  inmates  of  the  Rue  Morgue.  Madame 
L’Espanaye  and  her  daughter,  habited  in  their  night¬ 
clothes,  had  apparently  been  occupied  in  arranging 
some  papers  in  the  iron  chest  already  mentioned, 
which  had  been  wheeled  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 
It  was  open,  and  its  contents  lay  beside  it  on  the  floor. 
The  victims  must  have  been  sitting  with  their  backs 
towards  the  windows ;  and,  from  the  time  elapsing 
between  the  ingress  of  the  beast  and  the  screams,  it 
seems  probable  that  it  was  not  immediately  perceived. 
The  flapping-to  of  the  shutter  would  naturally  have 
been  attributed  to  the  wind. 

As  the  sailor  looked  in,  the  gigantic  animal  had 
seized  Madame  L’Espanaye  by  the  hair  (which  was 
loose,  as  she  had  been  combing  it),  and  was  flourishing 
the  razor  about  her  face,  in  imitation  of  the  motions 
of  a  barber.  The  daughter  lay  prostrate  and  motion¬ 
less  ;  she  had  swooned.  The  screams  and  struggles 
of  the  old  lady  (during  which  the  hair  was  torn  from 
her  head)  had  the  effect  of  changing  the  probably 
pacific  purposes  of  the  Ourang-Outang  into  those  of 


336  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE 

wrath.  With  one  determined  sweep  of  its  muscular 
arm  it  nearly  severed  her  head  from  her  body.  The 
sight  of  blood  inflamed  its  anger  into  frenzy.  Gnash¬ 
ing  its  teeth,  and  flasiiing  Are  from  its  eyes,  it  flew 
upon  the  body  of  the  girl,  and  imbedded  its  fearful 
talons  in  her  throat,  retaining  its  grasp  until  she 
expired.  Its  wandering  and  wild  glances  fell  at  this 
moment  upon  the  head  of  the  bed,  over  which  the 
face  of  its  master,  rigid  with  horror,  was  just  discern¬ 
ible.  The  fury  of  the  beast,  who  no  doubt  bore  still 
in  mind  the  dreaded  whip,  was  instantly  converted 
into  fear.  Conscious  of  having  deserved  punishment, 
it  seemed  desirous  of  concealing  its  bloody  deeds,  and 
■skipped  about  the  chamber  in  an  agony  of  nervous 
agitation ;  throwing  down  and  breaking  the  furniture 
as  it  moved,  and  dragging  the  bed  from  the  bedstead. 
In  conclusion,  it  seized  first  the  corpse  of  the  daugh¬ 
ter,  and  thrust  it  up  the  chimney,  as  it  was  found; 
then  that  of  the  old  lady,  which  it  immediately  hurled 
through  the  window  headlong. 

As  the  ape  approached  the  casement  with  its  muti¬ 
lated  burden,  the  sailor  shrank  aghast  to  the  rod,  and, 
rather  gliding  than  clambering  down  it,  hurried  at 
once  home  —  dreading  the  consequences  of  the  butch¬ 
ery,  and  gladly  abandoning,  in  his  terror,  all  solicitude 


■  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  337 

about  the  fate  of  the  Ourang-Outang.  The  words 
heard  by  the  party  upon  the  staircase  were  the 
Frenchman’s  exclamations  of  horror  and  affright, 
commingled  with  the  fiendish  jabberings  of  the  brute. 

I  have  scarcely  anything  to  add.  The  Ourang- 
Outang  must  have  escaped  from  the  chamber,  by  the 
rod,  just  before  the  breaking  of  the  door.  It  must 
have  closed  the  window  as  it  passed  through  it.  ^ 
was  subsequently  caught  by  the  owner  himself,  who 
obtained  for  it  a  very  large  sum  at  the  Jafdin  des 
Plantes.  Le  Bon  was  instantly  released,  upon  our 
narration  of  the  circumstances  (with  some  comments 
from  Dupin)  at  the  bureau  of  the  Prefect  of  Police. 
This  functionary,  however  well  disposed  to  my  friend, 
could  not  altogether  conceal  his  chagrin  at  the  turn 
which  affairs  had  taken,  and  was  fain  to  indulge  in  a 
sarcasm  or  two,  about  the  propriety  of  every  person 
minding  his  own  business. 

‘‘  Let  him  talk,”  said  Dupin,  who  had  not  thought  it 
necessary  to  reply.  Let  him  discourse ;  it  will  ease 
his  conscience.  I  am  satisfied  with  having  defeated 
him  in  his  own  castle.  Nevertheless,  that  he  failed 
in  the  solution  of  this  mystery  is  by  no  means  that 
matter  for  wonder  which  he  supposes  it;  for,  in  truth, 
our  friend  the  Prefect  is  somewhat  too  cunning  to  be 


338  THE  MURDERS  IN  THE  RUE  MORGUE  ' 

profound.  In  his  wisdom  is  no  stamen.  It  is  all 
head  and  no  body,  like  the  pictures  of  the  Goddess 
Laverna,  —  or,  at  best,  all  head  and  shoulders,  like  a 
codfish.  But  he  is  a  good  creature  after  all.  I  like 
him  especially  for  one  master-stroke  of  cant,  by  which 
he  has  attained  his  reputation  for  ingenuity.  I  mean 
the  way  he  has  ^  de  nier  ce  qu’est  et  d’expUquer  ce  que 
n’est  pas.’  ”  ° 


NOTES 


Page  1.  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher  first  appeared  in 
the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  published  in  Philadelp  ' 

It  was  reprinted  in  a  collection  of  Poe’s  stones  published  m 
1840  under  the  title  Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  Arabesque. 
This  story,  with  Ligeia,  hold  the  preeminence  in  Poe  s  piose 
which  are  held  by  Ulalume  and  I7ic  Baven  in  Ins  verse^ 
They  register  the  highest  mark  of  his  genius  for  narration  an 
for  expression  ;  they  disclose  his  imagination  and  his  art  n 
their  most  perfect  products.  The  story  is  a  psychological  study 
of  fear,  and  is  unsurpassed  in  artistic  feeling  and 
The  landscape  is  marvellously  harmonized  with  the  huma 
tragedy  wliicli  it  unfolds  ;  while  the  inner  relationship  between 
the  crumbling  house  and  the  dying  family  uihabite  ^ 

takes  possession  of  the  imagination  and  1 

the  inLable  catastrophe.  The  story  presents  a 
wreck  and  extinguishment,  which  is  flawless  in  conception  and 

in  execution. 

Pa-e  17.  The  Haunted  Palace  first  appeared  in  the  Amem- 
el  Museum,  a  Baltimore  publication,  in  April, 
duced  into  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher,  in  September 
the  same  year  ;  and  included  in  a  volume  of  poems  published 

839 


340 


NOTES 


in  1845  under  the  title  The  Baven  and  Other  Poems.  Like 
The  Conqueror  Worm.,  it  is  an  allegory  and  takes  the  highest 
rank,  not  only  in  Poe’s  poetry,  hut  in  the  poetry  of  the  world, 
as  an  example  of  imaginative  self-portraiture. 

Page  20.  Gresset.  A  French  poet  and  dramatist;  born  in 
1709,  died  in  1777. 

Macliiavelli.  An  Italian  novelist ;  bom  in  1469,  died  1527. 
The  little  story  to  which  Poe  refers  has  been  translated  into 
many  languages. 

Holberg.  A  Norwegian  writer  of  satire  and  comedy ;  born 
1684,  died  1754  ;  he  also  wrote  histories  and  fables. 

De  la  Chambre.  Chiromancy  is  the  art  of  divination  or  fore¬ 
telling  the  future  from  the  lines  and  conformation  of  the  hand. 
It  was  once  widely  practised. 

Tieck.  A  famous  German  writer ;  one  of  the  founders  of  the 
Romantic  School ;  born  in  1773,  died  1853  ;  novelist,  poet,  critic, 
and  writer  of  fairy  tales  and  fables  ;  characteristics  :  brilliant 
fancy,  inventive  skill,  and  a  touch  of  the  fantastic. 

Campanella.  An  Italian  ;  born  in  1568,  died  1639  ;  a  phi¬ 
losopher  who  claimed  entire  freedom  in  speculation,  and  was 
tortured  and  imprisoned  for  thirty  years  in  consequence. 

Page  21.  Pomponius  Mela.  A  representative  Roman  geog¬ 
rapher,  who  lived  in  the  reign  of  Claudius  and  was  the  author  of 
a  treatise  entitled  The  Plan  of  the  World. 

Page  35.  Ligeia  was  originally  contributed  in  1838  to  the 
American  Museum  of  Baltimore,  and  subsequently  reprinted 
in  Tales  of  the  Arabesque  and  Grotesque  in  1840.  It  strik- 


NOTES 


341 


ingly  resembles  Morelia^  which  may  be  regarded  as  a  pre¬ 
liminary  sketch  of  the  later  and  more  perfect  tale.  In  its  final 
form,  the  tale  may  be  taken  as  the  most  characteristic  expres¬ 
sion  of  Poe’s  imagination  and  of  his  magical  command  of  the 
resources  of  prose-writing.  It  takes  possession  of  the  reader’s 
imagination  by  a  series  of  incidents  and  descriptions,  so  con¬ 
trived  that  a  purely  imaginative  and  fantastic  narration  gains 
all  the  power  of  a  record  of  fact. 

Page  41 .  Joseph  Glanvill.  An  English  philosophical  writer  ; 
born  1636,  died  1680  ;  author  of  a  defence  of  belief  in  witch¬ 
craft. 

Page  94.  Sir  Thomas  More.  A  famous  English  scholar 
and  writer  ;  born  1480,  died  1536  ;  author  of  ITtopict  y  be¬ 
came  Lord  Chancellor ;  a  man  of  great  learning  and  wit ;  of 
uncorruptible  character  and  unflinching  courage;  long  a  fa¬ 
vorite  of  Henry  VIII. ;  his  refusal  to  accede  to  the  divorce 
from  Catharine  of  Aragon  led  to  his  imprisonment,  trial,  and 
execution. 

* 

Page  95.  Cimabue.  An  Italian  painter ;  born  at  Elorence  in 
1240,  died  about  1300  ;  one  of  the  early  restorers  of  painting  in 
Italy  at  the  close  of  the  Dark  Ages  ;  he  introduced  individu¬ 
ality  and  freedom  at  a  time  when  the  manner  end  forms  of  the 
Byzantine  painters  had  become  traditional  in  Italy. 

Page  96.  Guido.  Italian  painter  ;  born  in  Bologna  m  1575  ; 
the  “Aurora”  is  probably  the  best  known  of  his  pictures; 
characteristics  :  harmony  of  color,  grace,  gentleness ;  excelled 
in  treatment  of  devout  and  pathetic  subjects. 


S42 


NOTES 


Page  101.  Chapman’s  Bussy  D'^Amhois;  one  of  a  group  of 
dramas  dealing  with  French  subjects,  by  one  of  the  later  drama¬ 
tists  of  the  Elizabethan  Age ;  best  known  as  the  translator  of 
Homer. 

Page  117,  The  Pendulum  and  the  Pit  first  appeared  in 
an  annual,  The  Gift,  in  1843 ;  it  was  reprinted  later  in  the 
Broadway  Journal. 

Page  122.  Auto-da-f6  was  the  name  given  to  the  ceremony 
of  execution  of  heretics  condemned  to  death  by  the  Inquisition 
in  Spain  and  Portugal.  The  executions  generally  took  place  on 
Sunday. 

Page  144.  The  Inquisition,  sometimes  called  the  Holy  Office, 
was  a  tribunal  in  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  organized  for 
the  purpose  of  discovering,  repressing,  and  punishing  heresy 
and  other  offences  against  the  Church.  The  Inquisition  devel¬ 
oped  in  Spain  into  a  State  Tribunal,  the  excesses  of  which, 
Roman  Catholic  writers  declare,  the  Pope  endeavored  in  vain 
to  check.  Its  victims  in  that  country  were  numbered  by  tens 
of  thousands.  Its  power  was  greatly  reduced  and  its  rigor  abated 
when  the  Napoleonic  invasion  put  an  end  to  its  existence.  It 
was  subsequently  revived  and  finally  abolished  in  1835. 

Page  145.  William  Wilson  was  first  contributed  to  The 
Gift  in  1840,  and  reprinted  in  the  Tfles  of  the  Grotesque 
and  Arabesque.  It  was  the  earliest  of  Ijfoe’s  tales  of  conscience 
as  affected  by  fear;  and,  although  the  idea  of  a  double  who 
becomes  a  kind  of  avenger  is  old,  the  story  is  essentially  origi¬ 
nal.  The  resemblance  of  Mr.  Stevenson’s  “  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde  ”  to  this  early  work  of  Poe’s  has  been  noted.  '  The  de- 


NOTES 


343 


scriptioii  of  the  poet’s  school  life  in  England  gives  this  tale  auto- 
biograpliic  value.  ^ 

Page  178.  The  Carnival.  A  festival  held  in  Italy,  which 
took  the  form  of  masquerading,  buffoonery,  and  feasting,  and 
ended  on  the  eve  of  Ash  Wednesday,  when  the  fast  of  Lent 
began.  Many  of  its  forms  and  customs  survived  from  pagan 
f  festivals. 

Page  213.  The  Gold-Bug  was  accepted  by  Graham's,  but 
subsequently  withdrawn  by  Poe,  who  substituted  a  critical 
article  in  its  place,  and  submitted  the  story  in  competition  for 
I  a  prize  of  one  hundred  dollars  offered  by  The  Dollar  News¬ 
paper  of  Baltimore.  It  was  published  in  two  parts  in  June, 
1843,  and  has  probably  been  more  widely  read  than  any  other 
of  Poe’s  tales. 

Page  279.  The  Murders  in  the  Bue  Morgue  was  contributed 
to  Graham's  for  April,  1841,  when  Poe  had  become  the  editor 
of  that  publication.  It  was  the  earliest  of  the  tales  of  ratio¬ 
cination. 

Page  287.  Palais  Royal.  Built  by  Cardinal  Richelieu  in  the 
centre  of  Paris  in  1634  ;  the  garden  and  galleries,  with  shops 
and  restaurants,  have  long  been  a  favorite  rendezvous  for 
visitors. 

Page  338.  “Of  denying  that  which  is  and  explaining  that 
which  is  not,” 


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mat: 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 


■II  III  III  III  III  II 

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